


Domestic Madness

by ThreeWhiskeyLunch



Series: Madness Because The Reasons Don't Make Sense [8]
Category: Mass Effect, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Established Relationship, Fluff, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, M/M, Vaksani, Xenophilia, otp, somewhere to put all this fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-01 22:12:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 20,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4036414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeWhiskeyLunch/pseuds/ThreeWhiskeyLunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere to put the fluffy stuff. Using prompts from the 30 day OTP challenge, some reader prompts, some tropes, some stuff from the depths of my brain. Nothing too serious in here, just a place for some fun.</p><p>Sorry for the fluff. It's sticky sweet in here.</p><p>NSFW chapters are so noted at the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How It All Fits Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: holding hands

He can’t quite get over how strange it feels. The fingers are too short and there’s too many of them. The skin is too soft, except where calluses have been worn in by the triggers and stocks of assorted guns. The bones underneath feel like they could snap at any moment if he were to squeeze too hard. And the veins of the man's life’s essence run so clearly underneath the surface he can identify them even without his visor. It’s one reason among many that he keeps his talons blunt. Humans are too soft, too fleshy. Too easily punctured.  
  
With all that strangeness, he marvels at how their hands fit together. Zaeed’s thumb nearly wraps around his own as if anchored there. Then two fingers cradled between his thumb and first finger before alternating so that by the end the man’s pinky-what a strange word-is on the outside. Garrus’ whole large hand held firm around the smaller one. How is it possible, he wonders. And yet it’s there as plain as, well, the two hands in front of his face.  
  
If he’s very calm and quiet, he can feel the pulse in Zaeed’s fingers. The barely detectable thrum-thrum-thrum that vibrates through him so insistently. He knows the heart that pushes the blood along is strong in more ways than one. Fierce. Loyal. Proud. Determined.  
  
His.  
  
He tightens his fingers around the others lightly and feels the answering response, the impulse of counteraction as the too-small fingers clasp around his own. His lover sighs and the fingers loosen imperceptibly. But the thumb moves of it’s own accord, stroking his own thumb slowly, back and forth, mesmerising in its rhythm. He hums, deep in his subvocals, so that the entire bed must be vibrating.  
  
“Go to sleep, love.”  
  
“You first.”  
  
The man laughs low in his throat and pulls their intertwined hands toward him. The grip tightens and he watches as Zaeed moves to kiss his knuckles, nuzzles their conglomeration of fingers for a brief moment before sighing again. His mate guides the hands down until they rest just between the mattress and his chest. Garrus feels the warmth of the man’s skin, the slight prickle of chest hair on the back of his hand. His body relaxes slowly, breath deepening, but the fingers still remain around his own, the thumb waking occasionally to continue its play along Garrus’. Until finally it too quiets, stilled by the lull of sleep.  
  
Garrus’ eyes are long closed when his fingers finally loosen their grip. And yet the fingers remain laced one-or two-over the other. Strange how it all fits together. Strange to think that it couldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should you wish to do so, this would be the place to throw me a prompt.


	2. Somewhere On a Ship, Two People Admire the View

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: cuddling somewhere

“This is really goddamn uncomfortable.”  
  
“Well, shift your ass down a bit.”  
  
“If I shift it further, I’ll end up on the floor.” The ass in question wriggles-if such a word could be used to describe the ass of a ruthless bounty hunter-in such a way that Garrus feels his heart rate stutter. Said ass settles down more firmly between his legs, perched at the edge of Garrus' pilot's chair. “This is fucking dumb. Let me up.”  
  
"No, wait. Here, prop your feet on the console."  
  
"You yelled at me yesterday when I did that."  
  
"Because your boots had muck all over them. Also you were dangerously close to hitting the self destruct button."  
  
"They don't put those on ships anymore." Zaeed places his stockinged feet on the edge of the console. The leverage pushes his torso back into Garrus' unarmored chest. "There. Happy?"  
  
Garrus leans back in his pilot's chair, his arms around Zaeed, and hums. "Yes." Zaeed tips his head back to rest on Garrus' shoulder with a much put upon sigh. They sit together for a few minutes watching the slipstream of the mass effect field over the ship, the stars and blackness beyond. All alone in the 'verse. He can feel the beat of Zaeed's heart, his chest as it rises and falls with each breath. "See? Isn't this nice?"  
  
The man only grunts, but he does reach up to grasp onto the Turian hands that hold him. "So what am I looking at here?"  
  
"Stars, nebula, novas, gas giants. A gigantic, surprisingly empty parking lot. The usual space stuff."  
  
The man turns and gives him an icy glare. "You brought me up here to look at the same space shit I’ve been flying around in for 30 some odd years?"  
  
Garrus blinks, all innocence. "Yeah, and um. For cuddling."  
  
"Jesusfuckingchrist, Garrus."  
  
“What’s the point of you riding along with me if you spend the whole time snooping through my armory?”  
  
Zaeed lays his head back down against Garrus' shoulder. “Council’s given you a nice budget for those things. Someone needs to appreciate them.”  
  
“Oh, I appreciate them well enough. You don’t have to worry about that.”  
  
"Yeah. Okay, love."  
  
The hum of the engine ticks the minutes by slowly. Garrus closes his eyes, enjoys the weight of the hard body pressed up against him. The pin pricks start out slowly in the bottom of his feet, barely registering in his consciousness. They travel up his calves, cooling them just a bit. Then the tingles begin in earnest, and he knows with a sense of dread that his legs are falling asleep. An admission would defeat the purpose, end the cuddling-which he is enjoying. Up until the point when he begins to lose feeling in his thighs.  
  
Zaeed shifts awkwardly, “I love you and all, but your keel bone is gouging a hole into my shoulder.”  
  
Garrus immediately releases him, breathes a sigh of relief. “Yeah, my legs are about to fall off from lack of blood.” Zaeed stands, maneuvers around Garrus’ chair while Garrus taps his feet on the floor to restore circulation.  
  
“You know,” Zaeed says, standing in the doorway, “that work bench in the armory?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Pretty sturdy. And adjustable. Could make it ‘bout the right height.”  
  
“Right height for what?”  
  
Zaeed just looks at him, quirks an eyebrow.  
  
Oh. “Oh!”  
  
Garrus flares his mandibles and follows Zaeed back to the armory, admiring the view of his mate's behind and sending up a thanks to the inventor of auto pilot.


	3. Getting Played

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: gaming/watching a movie

Zaeed moves his hand out to hover over the checkered board that sits between the two of them. He hesitates for a moment over a pawn and Garrus can't stop the quiet trill of distress, watching the man about to make a dangerous mistake. Zaeed freezes, his fingers not quite touching the wooden pawn, and looks over at Garrus. "What?"  
  
It’s still a bit new to him, he forgets sometimes that Zaeed can hear the noises he makes in his subvocals. He shakes his head, tries to backtrack. "Nothing. Just, um, thought of something I forgot to do."  
  
"Bullshit." But the hand withdraws and Zaeed returns to staring at the chess board. Garrus covers his mouth with his hand, watching, thinking. Waiting. Now he understands why some people insist on playing chess with a timer. But Zaeed's fairly new to the game, which had surprised Garrus when he had found out, so he's willing to cut the man some slack.  
  
Zaeed sighs heavily. Garrus can see him eyeing his own bishop, trying to work a way around it. It's not going anywhere for the foreseeable future though, Garrus made sure of that. Zaeed's hand extends again, this time over his rook. Yes, he thinks, now just moved it to the right spot. But he doesn't say anything. It makes Zaeed nuts when he says stuff to try to encourage him. It's all he can do to keep his subvocals in check until Zaeed slides the rook to and then beyond where he should have put it. He lets out a disappointed trill.  
  
"What?"  
  
Garrus just shakes his head. "You told me not to coach you."  
  
"Well then stop with the subvocal shit."  
  
He feels badly. Zaeed's improved so much since Garrus had first taught him to play. "Sorry, Zee," an apology for his subvocalization and for the move that he's about to make. He stretches out a hand and moves his queen. Captures the rook that Zaeed had just moved.  
  
"Damnit, Garrus."  
  
"I know. I'm mean."  
  
"You are." Zaeed moves his own bishop, captures his queen with a wicked grin directed at Garrus' stunned face. "So am I."  
  
Garrus gapes at him.  
  
"Oh, and check. I think." Garrus looks down at his king, directly threatened by Zaeed's queen. He looks up, bafflement still on his face. Zaeed just grins, obviously more pleased than he has a right to be.  
  
"I think I've taught you too well."  
  
Zaeed just raises his eyebrows. The challenge is clear. He won't underestimate the man again.


	4. Who Chose Whom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: on a date

**Some jungle planet in the middle of nowhere**  
  
For the thousandth time, Garrus wipes the wet spray off after being smacked in the face with yet another palm frond. He's soaked through, trudging uphill, carrying a heavy pack and wishing he had had some other idea for a date. But no. BASE jumping. His idea. He just hadn't thought the entire wild scheme through, like the part about climbing to get to the cliff on the highest mountain on what was essentially a jungle planet, being hit repeatedly with leaves the size of a varren and smelling just as pleasant.  
  
"This takes me back." Zaeed says behind him. Much to Garrus' surprise, the man had agreed quite willingly to the idea, had even gone out and found the best parachutes available for each of them.  
  
"Of course it does." Garrus glances over his shoulder, watches as Zaeed pulls himself along through a muddy, slick spot. At least one of his mate's stories will take his mind off of how much he just wants to be warm and dry.  
  
"Me and my buddy Marco were hired to find this Turian kid, fourteen, fifteen years old. Ran away from home to join one of those misguided activist groups-save the varren or the pyjaks, some such nonsense. Parents paid us a lot of money to bring him back. Chased him down to this group's base, middle of the jungle. Thicker than this even. Had to cut our way through with goddamn machetes. Finally find the kid and he bloody well refuses to go. Gives us his grandfather's Shanxi medal-birthday present from the dad-tells us to tell them that we found his body. Kid had a lot of guts. Misguided, but a good lad." Garrus stops and pulls a water bottle from his pack to hand to Zaeed. They pass it back and forth until it's empty. "Wonder whatever happened to him." Zaeed's voice takes on a nostalgic note, as it so often does when he talks of such things. The Reapers obviously hadn't killed everyone. But they'd killed a lot. Wondering if someone was still alive after the war most often didn't elecite warm, fuzzy feelings. More like a sense of dread.  
  
"What was his name?"  
  
The man looks off into the distance, digging through his memories. "Braviun? Brivius?"  
  
Garrus nods. "Brivius, maybe. It's a common enough name."  
  
Zaeed shrugs. "Never did collect on that one. Took the medal back to the parents. Hightailed it outta there."  
  
He stores the empty bottle back in his pack and consults his omnitool. "We should be getting close." Zaeed moves on and he follows, enjoys the sight of the man's backside in his soaked clothes. He stops when a nearby branch snags on his pack and nearly pulls it off, twisting around full circle so that he loses sight of Zaeed.  
  
"Shit! Garrus! Found it." His voice sounds strange, like he's calling from a long distance away.  
  
Garrus follows only to find they were mere meters away from the cliff, the plant life growing right to and nearly over the edge. Zaeed had apparently not seen it until he was right on top of it because he's hanging tight onto a palm frond, body extended out over the cliff, feet firmly on the edge. No wonder his voice had sounded strange. There was nothing for it to echo off. "Oh, indeed. Good boy."  
  
"A little help?"  
  
Garrus moves carefully behind him and grabs onto his jacket, casually pulls him back in and wraps his arms around the man, his wet pack squished between them. He brings up his omnitool. "Well, according to this, we should be in a small clearing." He scans the ridge as much as he can, sees what looks like what they had been looking for not too far off. "Omnitool must need calibrating."  
  
Zaeed laughs and leans back against him. "You can calibrate your 'tool later, love."  
  
He switches off the omnitool, pitches his voice low and rumbles in Zaeed's ear, "I like it better when you calibrate my 'tool."  
  
"Save that thought for later, too."  
  
"Include a hot bath and a warm bed and you have yourself a deal." He steps back carefully and takes Zaeed's hand. "Thissa way."  
  
When they reach the clearing, which isn't much of a clearing really, Garrus looks back down at his omnitool. "Huh. Thirty-eight point four meters off." He peers over the edge cautiously. "Long way down."  
  
Zaeed stands beside him, but he's looking out over the valley below. It's an ocean of lush greens and yellows stretched as far as they can see. "Fuck, that's beautiful."  
  
Sometimes his mate says things that seem to counteract everything he thinks he knows about him. He looks over at him, a little astounded. He watches as his eyes scan over the horizon, appreciation written on his face. Then he looks over at Garrus.  
  
"What? You don't think that's beautiful?"  
  
"No. I mean yes. I do. I'm just surprised that you do."  
  
Zaeed extends his hand out, waving over the vista. "What do you see there? Nothing. Nothing that the hand of any species has made. Just nature, doing what it's been doing since the goddamn Universe first got wound up and started spitting out gasses and stars. No one here to interfere with shit they have no right fucking up. No one building cities, cutting the forest down in the name of progress, making roads, polluting the planet with wars. No one and their goddamn attempts at improving life for species-kind. No cruelty, no famine, no poverty. It just is. One big motherfucking jungle." His hand reaches down to grasp Garrus'.  
  
Garrus feels a bit like his heart is going to erupt. He loves this man so much. "You are amazing," he says, more than a little in awe. "Every day. You amaze me. Some days more than others. Like those days you wash the dishes. Or like right now."  
  
He looks over at him, eyebrows up. "What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?"  
  
"Nothing. Just be thankful that I notice. Be thankful that I picked you."  
  
"You picked me?" He scoffs. "I think you're forgetting your history."  
  
Garrus tightens the straps on the pack, turns for Zaeed to check it over. "I have an excellent memory. I picked you." He turns to return the favor for Zaeed who is giving him that look-somewhere between wry amusement and toleration. He tugs on and tightens the straps of his pack. "You might think you can just kiss me all fabulous-like and I'll fall all over you, but I'm not some lovestruck youngling." Garrus turns the man around, looks him in the eye. "I picked you. You're my mate." He kisses him, softly. "And because I love you so much, I'm going to let you jump first."  
  
"Is that so I can watch you turn into a goddamn blue splat on the ground?"  
  
"No. That's to test the packs, make sure you got the right ones."  
  
Zaeed eyes him warily. "Joking aside?"  
  
"Okay."  
  
He leans in, presses up against him, mouth against his mandible, hand in a tight grip on his arm. "I need you," he murmurs, "like I need air. Don't know how you've managed it, but I've gone from zero to everything with you. I love you and I picked _you_ , you goddamn Turian." He kisses him then. A kiss that makes Garrus feel weak in the knees, that goes on for days and weeks and ends all too soon. The man pulls back, looks at him with those eyes that make Garrus feel bare and exposed. And then he's released him and is backing up, eyes still on his until he's running toward the cliff at full speed where he disappears in a moment as Garrus' heart flips. For a few seconds it's quiet and then he hears Zaeed-screaming or laughing or both, it's hard to tell-and his heart restarts. He pulls at his straps one last time and says a small prayer to the spirits of the jungle.  
  
Then Garrus runs and jumps.


	5. TMI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: kissing

“I’m telling you, Shepard. The guy can kiss.”  
  
“That’s just so much more than I needed to know, Garrus. You can stop now.”  
  
“Well, you asked-”  
  
“No. I didn’t. I said I can’t imagine kissing Zaeed. You filled in the rest.”  
  
“Well, maybe so. But it’s true. For a Human, he knows his way around a Turian’s mouth plates.”  
  
“No! Ugh. Stop it. Mental image overload!”  
  
“It’s not just all tongue either. See these little points here? on my upper lip? He has this way of biting on them really lightly-”  
  
“Garrus, please stop. I don’t want to know any more.”  
  
“And then he does this thing with his lips-”  
  
“No more whiskey for you, Vakarian. You get all blabby and overshare.”  
  
“-where he-”  
  
“Oh hell. Garrus.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Stop fucking talking about me like I’m not here.”  
  
“Oh. Sorry, Zee. It’s just that you really know your way around a Turian’s mouth.”  
  
“Yeah. So you said. You’re cut off, love. Sorry, Shep.”  
  
“It’s okay. I need to go take a hot shower now. With disinfectant. Maybe figure out how to wash out my brain. No offence.”  
  
“None taken.”


	6. Voice Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: wearing each others clothes
> 
> NSFW in here kids

He's cold and he's tired. "Goddamn motherfucking piece of shit," he mutters as he tinkers with the heating unit in their bedroom. It's not like they need the heater often, even in winter, but it's cold and rainy and damp and is it too much to ask for the heater to work when they do need it? He curses his grandfathers on both sides when the coil breaks off with a snap, sending him reeling back into the bed, knocking his head against the frame.  
  
"Fucking hell!"  
  
Well, that's all for that one. He kicks it for good measure, but only manages to bruise his toe. "Fuck!" He sighs heavily and sinks down on the bed. He wishes Garrus were here. He'd have a quip, something to lighten the mood, something to make him think life isn't such a shithole. As it is right about now, life is looking pretty much like a shithole.  
  
He shivers and casts his eyes around the room where they land on one of Garrus' old sweaters. He pulls it around him, nearly swimming in it it's so large especially around his neck. But he tugs it tight against him and breathes deeply.  
  
Such a fucking mistake. Garrus' musk, his bonding scent, is all over it. Woven into it like a magic filament. He groans, falls back on the bed and breathes deeply again, his cock already half hard, a Pavlovian dog salivating. Fuck, he misses Garrus. Images flash of Garrus over him, in him, his hand on him as he groans with need. Begs for release. He holds tight to the sweater with one hand while the other searches out his dick, rubbing through his jeans. "Fuck." He groans again. It's not enough.  
  
He flips open his omnitool and calls his lover.  
  
"Zee?" Voice only. Damn. He can deal with it, though.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"You alright?"  
  
"Cold. Goddamn heater's broken." There's a pause. He can hear shifting and Garrus mutters to himself. "Bad time?"  
  
"No. Just doing some surveillance. Kinda need to keep track of numbers. Hang on a sec." A pause, more rustling. "Okay, so heater's broken."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"And you're in a mood."  
  
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. "Kinda...miss you."  
  
He could swear he hears the damned Turian smile. There’s definitely a pleased trill in his subvocals when he says, "Wow. That's some admission."  
  
"I'm hanging up now."  
  
"Like hell. I need to savor the moment." Another pause, more rustling. "So. Simple curiosity. What are you wearing?" his voice pitches low, the flanging notes hitting him right in his nuts. Fuck.  
  
But he laughs softly, looking down at himself wrapped up in Garrus' sweater, hand still over the bulge in his pants. "What am I wearing? Or what am I _wearing_? Because you probably wouldn't believe what I'm wearing."  
  
"Oh. Now I am more than curious. Please tell me it's something really sexy. Or obscene. Or both. Please tell me it's both."  
  
"Don’t think it’s either, really. Unless you have some sort of kink we haven’t talked about yet. I’m in your sweater."  
  
He can hear the pleased trills in Garrus' subvocals. "Which one?"  
  
"Blue one. With the red stripe."  
  
"Hm."  
  
"I was cold. It was there."  
  
"That is kinda sexy. I wish I could see that." There's another pause as Garrus counts under his breath, shuffles something around. He's quiet for several minutes and he doesn't mind. He can hear the rhythm of his breath and that calms him. "So what are you doing?"  
  
"I'm on the goddamn bed, wrapped up in your goddamn sweater like some old granny, breathing in your goddamn scent. What did you do, rub this thing all over your goddamn head?"  
  
"Hm. Can't recall." There's a beat, a pause, a holding of breath. "What's your hand doing?"  
  
He laughs. "Which one?"  
  
"The one in closest proximity to your cock."  
  
Jesusfuck. How does he even know? His hand twitches and grasps hold harder. Not hard enough though, through the thick fabric. Damn the Turian. "Happens to be rubbing my cock through my jeans."  
  
"Hmm." He can hear his breathing deepen and he nearly growls, "Are you hard?"  
  
If he wasn't already, that voice puts him over the edge. "Yes. Fuck yes." He turns his head slightly, pushes his nose against the fabric and breathes in the spicy musk of his lover. He rubs along his hardened length, needing friction.  
  
"You know what I think? I think you should unzip."  
  
He does so gladly, slides his hand inside. Hears the familiar sound of armor being released coming from Garrus' end of the call. He grins. "Handy thing, codpieces."  
  
"Mn."  
  
"Are you hard?" A vision of that blue cock, ridged and slick with his Turian's- _his_ Turian’s-natural lubricant flashes through his mind. "Are you out?"  
  
"Yes and yes."  
  
"Love when your dick slides out into my hand."  
  
He hears Garrus gasp, then groan. His subvocals go nuts with trills and hums. "Fuck. Zee."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"What are you thinking about?"  
  
He smiles to himself, remembering. "Before you left, you riding me-"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You're hips roll and snap, fucking yourself on me."  
  
"Mn. Go on."  
  
"You're cock has this up-tilt to it, rubs against my stomach, and the look on your face of just...ecstasy." He hears him breathing faster. He pushes his pants down, frees his cock, dripping and deep red at the tip, smears the pre-cum with his thumb. "You were so-" he searches for the word. He's never been one for this long distance comm-sex sort of thing. But he's so into it now, there's no going back.  
  
"So-" Garrus prompts quietly, need in his voice.  
  
"Mnn...cock-proud."  
  
"Cock-proud? Is that a thing?"  
  
"Don't know. Is now." He's stroking himself, slow, firm. Imagines Garrus’ hand instead of his, the way those three fingers seem to be able to do more for him than his five.  
  
"Tell me what you mean," he gasps again, subvocals in a purr. "I want to hear you say it."  
  
Words strangle his throat as he grasps for what to say. He's embarrassed now that he's said it, wants to back track, but how can he say no to Garrus? He's never been able to say no. Goddamn Turian.  
  
"Please, Zee."  
  
Fucking hell. "You were just-" he groans, reaches down to roll his balls, stretches the skin just enough, "-so fucking hot, so into it. Like you know how sexy you are up there and you're just going to get off on me and everyone else can go to hell. And your cock is so...fucking beautiful."  
  
"You were hitting everything just right."  
  
"Riding my dick and I got you off with my hand. The way your hips rolled-"  
  
"You felt so good in me. And you have a nice grip."  
  
"Speaking of grips, what are you doing?"  
  
"I'm fucking my hand in an abandoned warehouse when I should be working. What are you doing?"  
  
"Trying to decide how long I want to draw this out. Are you close?"  
  
"Kinda close."  
  
"Yeah, good. Me too.” He strokes harder, faster. “I want to hear you. Anyone around? Will you be heard?"  
  
"Well, I am trying to hide, here."  
  
"Fuck. When you get home, I'm gonna make you scream."  
  
“You can be loud for both of us.”  
  
“Nngh-Garrus. Love. Shit.”  
  
“Yeah. I’m with you.”  
  
He closes his eyes, embraces the urge in his groin, thinks of Garrus on the other end jacking off in his armor, that fucking gorgeous cock in his hand. His breathing is heavy, labored as he strains into his fist. Close. So close. Then the flanged subvocal whine of Garrus coming, trying to be quiet and not quite succeeding sends him over. “Nng, fuck!” His hips jerk up and he groans, loud and long, cum spurting up over his hand and onto his stomach. He breathes deep in gasps, hips spasming as he pumps his cock, squeezing out the last bit of pleasure.  
  
He hears Garrus moan softly and laughs. “You never can be goddamn quiet, can you?”  
  
Garrus trills. “Mn. Shut up. Neither can you.” He hears the Turian sigh. “Well. That was fucking hot.”  
  
He’s still slowly stroking his softening cock, slick with his cum. The edge is gone, but the underlying need is still there. This will have to do until he can have his Turian back in his bed. “Just makes me miss you more.”  
  
He hears Garrus purr his pleasure again, deep in his subvocals, the way it does when it vibrates his chest and Zaeed can feel it through his fingers. “Same here.” He sighs. “So. Still cold?”  
  
He laughs, startled. He’d shrugged off the sweater at some point without even noticing. He reaches over and grabs a couple tissues to clean himself up. “No. Your master plan seems to have worked.”  
  
There it is again. The pleased trill of his lover that sends a reaction down his spine every time. “What master plan?” But he can hear the smile in his voice. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
Now that his heart rate is returning to normal, he can feel the cool air of the room again against his exposed hips and stomach. He pulls his pants back up, leaves the zipper undone for now. He tugs the sweater back around him, turns on his side. “Sure. Okay, love.”  
  
There’s another sigh from Garrus, this time with a note of sadness. “I should get back to work.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Call the heater guy, uh, er, person.”  
  
“Yeah. I’ll call the heater guy.”  
  
Such domesticity. And he doesn’t really mind. It surprises him how much he doesn’t mind.


	7. Super Secret Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: cosplaying  
> (some of these prompts are just...I dunno. I'm pretty proud of myself that I figured this one out.)

They both lay splayed out on the bed. Spent. Too tired to move, to clean themselves up, to untangle the sheets, to do anything other than stare at the ceiling. Garrus feels just a little gross, but more than that, he feels satisfied and full of-hm, something. That something is not just Zaeed’s cum either, he thinks with a silent giggle, then wonders at his mental age and attitude. But truth be told, since he and Zaeed have been doing whatever it is that they have been doing, he does feel a little bit like he’s digressed mentally. He feels younger. Lighter. Sillier.  
  
“You know,” he says to the man, “what this makes you. Seeing as how I’m Batman.”  
  
He can hear him breathing as he contemplates. “Well, not Catwoman, I can tell you that,” he finally says.  
  
“No. Boy Wonder.”  
  
“Oh fuck no. I am not Robin.”  
  
“You totally are Robin.”  
  
“I will never, ever be goddamn Robin.”  
  
Garrus moves his head slightly to look over at his lover. Zaeed’s head is pillowed on his hand, arm bent up with the elbow jutting out. Eyes closed, satisfied smirk on his face. Garrus’ gaze travels over the body, the tattoos, the hair in odd places-under the arms? Really? Why?-the muscles just under the soft flesh. If he had an iota of strength left, he’d reach over and run his fingers across those muscles, find the scar that runs just underneath his left nipple. He sighs at the thought. He wants Zaeed to do all that stuff he just did to him, with him, all over again. Once more from the top.  
  
“You are so Robin.”  
  
Zaeed seems to let it pass, although the smirk doesn't leave his face. They lay in silence for a while, just the hum of the air circulating, and their breathing, the slight rustle of fabric when one of them moves. “Surprised you don’t have some sort of Batman costume lurking somewhere.”  
  
“If I had one, you know I’d wear it around the ship.”  
  
“It’s a goddamn fear of mine. You showing up at the door like that.”  
  
“Hm. Well, you can rest easy. I don’t have one. Not that I haven’t looked. They don’t make them to fit Turians.”  
  
“Ah-ha. You have looked.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Not even a cosplay outfitter?”  
  
“A what now?”  
  
“Cosplay.” He turns to look at Garrus. “You know. Conventions. Comics. Dressing up in ridiculous costumes?”  
  
Garrus just shakes his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
"How is it you know all the goddamn comic book characters from the last 200 years, but have no clue what cosplay is?"  
  
Garrus shrugs. "Priorities?"  
  
Zaeed groans, low in his throat. “I’m gonna fucking regret telling you this.” He sighs and turns on his side, props his head on his hand. “There are conventions where people dress up like their favorite character from a movie or comic or some such shit. Then they go off and act like idiots with other people who are dressed up as other characters from the same movie or comic-”  
  
“That’s a _thing_?” Garrus can't keep the excitement out of his voice. How could he have not known this? He grabs his omnitool from the side table.  
  
"Oh bloody hell." Zaeed watches him, amused.  
  
A quick extranet search makes his head spin. Costume designers, conventions, forums - a whole new world opens up before his eyes. He finds a designer who makes costumes specifically for Turians, orders one with two clicks. Then looks over at Zaeed. "What size are you?"  
  
"What? No!"  
  
"Large? So difficult to tell with Humans. Extra large? Wait-" he pulls up the holo option.  
  
"What are you-"  
  
-click-  
  
"Did you just take my goddamn picture?"  
  
"They can figure out the sizing easier this way."  
  
"No, Garrus. I won't-"  
  
"Too late. Already ordered." He flips through websites. "And look, there's a convention next month! 'Oldest and biggest comic convention in the galaxy! We're back better than ever!' Oh, we are so going to that."  
  
"I'm not-"  
  
"Too late. Tickets ordered. Look. It says tickets are non-refundable." He closes his omni and throws it back on the table, grins widely at Zaeed.  
  
The man looks back at him baffled, amused, a little peeved maybe. "I'm not going. Take Tali. Or Kasumi. That seems like something up her alley. Tali wouldn't even need a costume. She can just go as herself."  
  
Garrus ignores him as he rolls Zaeed onto his back, straddles his hips. He nuzzles into his shoulder. "Mm. Boy Wonder."  
  
"Garrus, fucking cut it out."  
  
He pauses, sits up a little. "Oh, hey. Now I have a naked picture of you."  
  
"Just how far down did you take that?"  
  
He grins, mandibles wide. "Far enough."  
  
"Goddamnit-"  
  
"Don't worry. I cropped it before I sent it."  
  
"Oh well. That makes it all right then, does it?"  
  
Garrus returns to kissing Zaeed's shoulder. "Mm-hm." He breathes him in, goes a bit lightheaded from Zaeed's scent.  
  
"I'm not going."  
  
"Okay," Garrus' tone suggests otherwise. He nibbles at the man's ear.  
  
"I already regret telling you about that."  
  
"No, you don't." He purrs, carapace vibrating against Zaeed's chest. "It'll be fun. Besides. I got you Hellboy. You can sulk in the corner and be all cranky and smoke cigars and ignore everyone. Completely in character."  
  
"You're so full of shit."  
  
“Mm. Sexy talk.” Garrus nips at his jaw, works his way up to his mouth, slips his tongue in, kisses him slowly. He pulls away slightly, breathes against his mouth. "You really think I'm going to share Boy Wonder with the whole galaxy?"  
  
"Garrus, I fucking swear. You call me that in front of anyone - friend or foe or total stranger - I will peel the fringe off your fucking head."  
  
He laughs. "Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me."


	8. Your Friends Love You and Want You To Be Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very slightly NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: hanging with friends
> 
> 2 chappies posted

It was one thing to be carrying on with the man. Their meetings unintentionally clandestine in nature, simply because it was a large galaxy and Garrus was busy with Council issues, therefore he didn't see his friends that often anyway. So there hadn't been much opportunity to divulge the goings-on between him and Zaeed to anyone. And even if there had been, he's pretty sure he wouldn't have said anything. He liked having this secret, having it for himself, even if it meant keeping his friends in the dark.

It was another matter entirely to be around those friends and Zaeed at the same time. It made Garrus nervous in ways he wasn't quite sure he could pinpoint, wasn't sure he was comfortable examining. The relationship-and he didn't even know if it could be called that-was still so new, still in the exploring things faze. Definitely in the exploring each other's skin and plates, scars and muscles, tender and ticklish spots faze. And to inject their friends into the mix right now, right when it felt the most fragile, seemed like a way to make things unnecessarily complicated.

It was Shepard's idea to throw Kaiden's surprise birthday party on Omega. Like there weren't other places they could get into less trouble. But when did that ever stop Shepard? A private room at AfterLife was rented, the tab already arranged, the cake smuggled in from some bakery in Vancouver. And the invitation was more of a demand that an actual invite. _You will be there because Shepard says so._

One thing's for certain: it's Omega and Garrus isn't going anywhere without full body armor on and a couple extra thermal clips tucked away. Just in case.

Zaeed's already there when he enters the room, sitting with Jack and Kasumi off in the corner. The bass line from the music thumping from the dance floor sends his heart rate up. Or is it the heated glance from Zaeed that does that? An intense flash of memory hits him: the two of them in Zaeed's apartment, on Zaeed's bed, tangling limbs and hands grasping to hold on, pull closer, gasping breaths and Zaeed’s low moan as he comes- And now he’s quite glad he's worn the armor because he's practically hard and his plates are practically spreading and he's only been in the room for thirty seconds. _Spirits!_ He takes a deep breath to rein in his thoughts.

The evening passes in a blur, his attention half on the people standing around him, half on the man who always seems to be on the other side of the room, who always seem to be giving him that same covert, heated stare when no one else is looking. His heart rate is doing double time, never really able to settle and he catches himself needing to set his drink down to stop the ice from vibrating in the liquid.

"What is up with Zaeed?" Tali asks at his elbow. "He's been staring at you all night."

"Has he?" He hears his voice crack with nerves. "That’s just-” _-hot-_ “-um. How odd." He clears his throat and makes a point of not looking over at the man. All his C-Sec training has long gone out the window. There is no way he'd let himself off with the way he's been acting, so obviously guilty of something. Are his friends really so oblivious?

"Yeah,” Tali slurs. Alright, maybe not oblivious then. Just drunk. “And it's not like his usual 'I hate everyone' stare either. It's...I don't know. Like he's trying to pin you to the wall or something."

 _Like he did a couple weeks ago, up against the bulkhead of my ship?_ Thankfully, he keeps that thought from tumbling out of his mouth. But the image is burned in his brain: Zaeed's firm grip on his hands, half-in, half-out of their armors (the rest laying in a trail from the airlock to their present position), the man's hot, demanding mouth on his, groans that he's not sure who is making shared between them, the need to have him in him or to be in him (honestly he doesn't care, he just _craves_ ). He remembers feeling like a hormonal teenager: giddy and horny and full of pent up sexual energy. And he remembers that that was when Zaeed found a spot on the ridge of his pelvic plates-a spot he hadn’t even known existed-that when rubbed a certain way causes an involuntary leg jerk. And that there are now two permanent dents (one from the initial reaction and one from the repeat performance) in the wall next to his bed from his boot (because, yes, he still had his boots on) flying out and bashing on the metal with a loud clang.

If Tali notices his silence, she doesn't say. "Well, I guess it doesn't matter anyway. Looks like he's leaving."

"Oh?" He does look then, casting a casual glance over his shoulder to see the back of the bashed up yellow armor be enveloped by the crowd out in the main room. He sets his empty glass down, clears his throat again. "Uh, I should, uh-Excuse me, I need the head."

He doesn't remember AfterLife ever being so frustratingly crowded before as he tries to follow Zaeed through the crush of people. When he finally does makes his way to the hallway behind the dance floor that leads to the back exit, there's no sign of yellow armor or the man and he deflates a little. With a sigh, he decides to use the restroom since he's there anyway, slams the door with his fist a little too hard so that it bashes back against the wall before swinging shut.

A firm hand clamps down on his armored arm and for a split second he nearly reaches for his pistol, but then the familiar tattoo on the wrist registers in his brain and his heart speeds as Zaeed pulls him into a stall and shuts the door. They come together in a clap of armor, unable to really get a good hold of the other. But their mouths still find each other’s, Zaeed muttering, "Goddamn tease," against his plates and Garrus muttering back, "You're one to talk. You've been eye-fucking me all night." Then there's no more words for minutes, just heavy breaths and the taste of whiskey on his tongue and the clack of teeth as urgent mouths open and press together.

He keens as the man pulls away, but he doesn't go far, forehead resting on crest as they pant at each other. "Fuck, Garrus."

"Oh, I wish you would."

Zaeed laughs, deep in his throat. "Ten days?"

"Nine in a couple hours, actually."

"Looking forward to it that much, eh?"

His heart aches with the thought. Just Zaeed and himself on a beach with nothing to do for days on end. He recognizes he's becoming attached, maybe too much for his own good. He feels out of control and unwilling to put a stop to it. He wants to give in, feels himself teetering on the precipice of letting his heart run rampant. He wants Zaeed to give in too, but he questions if the man ever would. For now, it's enough to know that he's willing to snog the life out of him in the men's head on an outpost that he knows the man passionately hates. "The anticipation is making me more than a little distracted," he admits.

Zaeed's mouth twists in a wicked grin and he kisses him again, softer with something behind it that sends a shivering thrill down his spine, makes him think maybe the man isn't so immune to what's been happening between them as lets on. He feels a little dizzy with the thought. Or maybe it's just the kiss and the lack of oxygen.

His arms are empty though as Zaeed pulls away, runs his hands through the mess of his hair (Garrus might have made that mess, he doesn't remember), clears his throat. "So I'll meet you there?"

Garrus nods. "Yeah."

Zaeed opens the stall door and stiffens for a moment, his gaze directed toward the sinks. "Oh, fucking hell. Goddamn nosey bastard." He’s gone without a backward glance, leaving Garrus with a feeling of dread itching in his gizzard.

Curious and knowing he can’t just stay hidden in the stall, Garrus pokes his head out around the metal wall. Shepard is leaning on one of the sinks, arms crossed, a very pleased grin directed at Garrus.

Fucking hell indeed.


	9. Banish the Nightmares, Beloved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: vague reference to self-harm/suicide, so skip this one if that doesn't work for you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: nightmare

He hasn't had one in a while. Perhaps because his life has settled, become more constant. Perhaps because of sleeping with Zaeed and his solid presence, knowing he is there even in the depths of his subconscious as he sleeps. Perhaps just because of time and distance. But for whatever reason, he has one. One of the really bad ones.

His mother, laid out on her deathbed, plates dry, mandibles sagging, her hands folded over her now stilled body. He bends over to kiss her cold cheek one final time, agony ripping through his heart so that he feels like he will shatter into a thousand sharp pieces. Her eyes snap open the moment he touches her, not the deep green eyes of the mother he's loved all his life, but the accusing blue eyes of Saren. The stare pierces him, digs into him. He can feel the itch under his plates as the gaze penetrates into his flesh, leaving nothing uncovered.

Her mouth opens. He feels himself being pulled into the black void that he can see inside. His struggles only seem to bring the void closer, but he can’t let himself be pulled into the darkness that lays in wait there. Now there’s a hand on his arm, his mother’s bones hold him in a crushing grip and there is no escape.

"No!" His struggles only tighten the grip, and he's pulled closer to the mouth that breathes death and decay. He can smell the staleness of the emptiness inside, the nothingness that Mother/Saren promises. "I'm sorry I wasn't there. Mother-"

"Your words mean nothing!" And with that he's yanked inside, into the void and he screams from the pain, feels every nerve burn in the fire of nothing-

"Garrus." A hand on his shoulder, welcome and familiar warmth that anchors him. He turns, weightless, limbs heavy in the oily pitch black, searching. Still there is nothing and his panic rises. He's alone and screams in fear.

"Garrus!" Zaeed shakes him awake and he bolts upright, grabbing his head with both hands. His heart races, hands shaking uncontrollably. Zaeed flips the light on and sits up next to him. "You alright?" His hand on his back rubs lightly before resting on his shoulder. "Hey."

"Yeah. Alright. I'm okay. Just-" He turns to the man and pulls him into a tight embrace. "Bad dream."

Zaeed returns the embrace. "I know. Thrashing around like a goddamn Krogan in heat. Good thing you keep your claws dull."

He keens in his subvocals, hugs his mate harder. "Did I hurt you? Please tell me I didn't hurt you."

"No. Garrus, goddamnit, too hard."

"Sorry." He holds him for a while, humming to himself, surprised that Zaeed lets him hang onto him for so long.

"Gonna be okay?" The man's hands travel over his back, soothing in a way that is again surprising. "Need anything?" Maybe not so surprising, though. He knows Zaeed has his own nightmares on occasion.

He shakes his head, lowers himself down onto the bed, pulling Zaeed with him. "No. Just-" he closes his eyes and sees the blackness of the void again, tries to tamp down the panic. "Don't let me go."

"Alright. Hang on a sec." He pulls the blanket up over them and returns to Garrus' embrace. The man tucks his head in under Garrus' chin, into the curve of his carapace, twines his legs in with his. Arm around his back, thumb stroking the thinner hide between his plates.

Garrus stares into the dim light of the room over his mate's head. The dream is still too close. Images of his mother linger, along with the agony that had filled his heart. It's not just the pain from the dream, but remembered from when Solana had called to tell him that she was gone and that he was a fool. The emptiness of loss, the feeling of inadequacy that what he had done to help her wasn't enough, would never be enough and it was too late for anything else.

There's a quietness that settles over them as their breath synchronises together. He knows Zaeed is still awake, even though his movements have stilled. "Want to talk about it?" The words are whispered into his hide, and again he marvels at the man he's chosen as his mate. That he asks the question is enough to calm him.

"My mother had Corpalis Syndrome," he says quietly into the darkness. He hears the sadness in his subharmonics, keens a little from the ache in his throat. "Degenerative disease."

He feels Zaeed listen, although he says nothing. Allows him the space to say what he needs to say.

"And I couldn't-" he swallows, throat thick with his sorrow. "I couldn't be there. I didn't want to be there. I couldn't-"

"Garrus."

"I couldn't watch her die like that. I told myself that what I was doing was too important. Helping Shepard find Saren, escaping to Omega of all places so I could delude myself that I was doing something good, and then after that the Collectors. Always something to keep me away from her. From watching her life be stolen from her one second at a time, until nothing would be left but an empty shell."

Zaeed's arm tightens around him, his nose pressed more firmly to his chest.

"She died before the Reapers attacked and it was almost a relief when they did. Something else to think about other than her not being there. An excuse to not feel the pain. Fucking selfish-"

"No."

"Yes. Millions, billions dying and all I can think is 'Thank the Spirits.' Shepard probably saved me in more ways than one when he took me with him.” He remembers feeling almost peeved when Shepard had shown up on Menae. That he might deny him the glory of dying on the battlefield. “Death wish, I think you call it."

Zaeed pulls back just enough so that he can look up at him in the dim light. "Garrus, you're not the only one who's had thoughts like that."

There's something in his voice that makes him pause, study the man's features half obscured by shadow. This coming from a man who hides his heart away from nearly everyone. "You're not the only one to grieve. To think there are ways to end it so that you're the one in control." He tucks his face back in against Garrus, speaking against the hide inside his carapace. Garrus thinks maybe he'll say more, it seems like he'll say more. He wonders about Thane. He wonders about Zaeed. He waits for him to go on, but then the moment passes and he senses his mate shake off whatever he was going to say. "Not your fault you have goddamn feelings. And I don't blame you. Watching someone you care about die like that-" his words drift off and he doesn't finish his thought.

"I was a coward when it counted."

"Fucking hell. There are many words I would use to describe you. Coward would never be one of them."

"But I-"

The man pulls back then, anger tightening his face, "Godfuckingdamnit, Garrus. Stop beating yourself up about it. It's over and done. You're not a whiner. If you were, I wouldn't have anything to do with you. You want to start fresh? Fine. There. Past is gone. Learn your goddamn lessons and move the fuck on."

It's surprising. Zaeed rarely gets angry at him. His patience seems almost infinite when it comes to Garrus and his antics. He seems to have come to the end of that patience though, which Garrus finds to be almost a relief. How far can you push a man until he pushes back? This far, apparently. He understands then. Zaeed loves him. He loves him so much he's not afraid to show him when he's being an ass, wallowing in self-pity and remorse over things that he will never be able to change.

He hugs the man tight, arms and legs fully involved in clasping the man to him. "I love you so much."

"Jesus, Garrus-"

"Just shut up and let me appreciate you."

"I'd appreciate some goddamn oxygen when you get the chance."

"Breathing is so overrated."

"Says the Turian with the thick plating for skin."

"You can wear armor to bed. That might almost make us even."

"I'll give you goddamn even." Zaeed pushes his hips up, rolls him over onto his back and sits up, straddling Garrus' hips. The blanket falls away from them and cool air brushes against Garrus' hide. Zaeed's form looms over him as he straightens, then leans back slightly, hands sliding down over Turian thighs.

"Zaeed, what're you-" It all becomes clear when the man's fingers dig in under Garrus' knees. "No! You-" he tries to buck him off with his hips, convulsing from the shivers as his mate tickles his hide. "No fair! Ah!" He giggles, subvocals shrill in the night air. "Ha ha ha!" he gasps, hardly able to draw breath. Zaeed's using all the force in his lower body to keep him pinned though, so he rolls to and fro on his carapace, helpless against the man's many fingers. "Stop! You fucker!"

"You're like a little turtle down there," he gloats, stops tormenting him to lean forward, arms caging him in on either side of his body.

"What, so now you feel sorry for me?" he pants, breathless from the onslaught.

"No. Just think your goddamn cute."

"Oh. So tormenting small amphibious creatures is kinda cute. You're a psychopath."

"You know I love it when you talk sexy." His voice is low and gruff and he's centimeters away, warm breath fanning over his face. He kisses him, softly, too briefly. But when he moves away, he's still so close. "Garrus," he whispers.

"Hm?"

"I don't tell you enough that I love you."

Garrus slides his hands up the man's arms, over the hair, the scars, the tattoos, up over his shoulders and down his back to rest at his hips. The man's body is a familiar map by now: the dip at his lower back, the muscles on his chest, the tempting curve of his behind. Garrus loves all of him, the imperfect even more than the perfect. "You tell me, even when you don't use the words. I know."

"Well. I do love you."

He trills happily, mandibles flicking. "Actions speak louder, or so I hear."

“Action, eh?”

“Yeah. You should probably fuck my brains out. Just to prove it.”

He kisses him again, longer and harder this time, tongue demanding, lips sucking. He opens himself freely, relishes the flavor of the man he loves as his tongue plays against his. He slides his hands over the soft skin of Zaeed’s back, then down to cup his ass and squeezes gently, suggestively.

“I think I can manage that,” the man murmurs against his mouth, nipping at plates with his blunt teeth.

Any vestiges of the dream are banished, chased away by loving hands that brush them aside. Echoes of his scream are drowned out by murmurs in his ear, by whispers and quickened breath. The feeling of dread and self-doubt is replaced with contentment and joy when the man tells him again, “I love you.” It’s enough to make his heart nearly burst.


	10. Beans and Beans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a British thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place a few weeks after they move into the apartment together.
> 
> This one's for potionmaster.
> 
> Like all fine literature, this was inspired by an email concerning leftovers. Thanks a lot for distracting me from writing plot stuff like I should be doing. *shakes fist*

Garrus peered over Zaeed’s shoulder into the pan that was simmering on the stove. Human food was...interesting, to say the least. And this item in particular seemed to not only be one of his mate’s favorites, but also appealed to Garrus about as much as slicing open a husk and taking a bite of whatever rotten flesh might spill out. From the experience of making too many of those husks explode and splatter, he thought that what Zaeed had cooking looked just about the same too.

Back on the _Normandy_ , he had seen the man (on multiple occasions, which meant it was a willful and if not enjoyable at least not abhorrent experience) peel the lid off and eat bacon-flavored bean things right from the round container. Cold. He shuddered at the memory.

“That’s those bacon-flavored bean things. Why do you always eat bacon-flavored bean things?”

Zaeed’s head turned, just enough so that he could look at him from the corner of his eye. His face was stony, a featureless mask with only the scar to suggest a malevolent stare. A milky blue eye blinked at him slowly, as if the brain inside the skull was processing several things at once.

“What?” Garrus tried to pretend that when Zaeed looked like that at him that the man wasn’t thinking about ripping his arm off. Not that he would do it. But he probably could. “You eat those bacon-flavored bean things all the time. There are enough of them in the pantry, you could live for a year on what we have in there.”

The spoon that stirred the contents of the pot was slowly set aside and his mate turned fully, eyes never leaving his in a cold stare.

“‘Bacon-flavored bean things’?” Zaeed repeated the phrase under his breath. He blinked at Garrus and his nostrils flared, the corners of his eyes forming those tiny little laugh lines that made Garrus’ heart do funny things. “You mean _beans_?”

“Well, yeah. They’re beans, whatever that is. And the label says ‘flavored with real bacon’ so…”

“...bacon-flavored bean things.”

“They look like these eggs things that-”

  
“Don’t tell me.”

“-on Palaven there’s this bird-”

“Your uncle?”

“No. My grandmother, duh. Anyway they lay these eggs in this mass of goo and-”

“Stop.”

“-it looks just like bacon-flavored bean things. My mother used to make us go out and collect it to use as a lure when rodents got in the house.”

“Garrus.” Zaeed’s mouth twisted, shoulders jerking as he held in his laughter.

“It smelled like the inside of a Vorcha’s mouth.”

“Kissed a lot of Vorcha, have ya?” The lines at the corners of his mate’s eyes multiplied.

“Just the one. It was one too many.” He peered back at the contents of the pot. “It appears your bacon-flavored bean thing gizz is trying to escape.” Small spurts of light red juice splattered out of the pot onto the stovetop.

Zaeed turned back, his shoulder rubbing against Garrus’ chest. He leaned into him, crowding as his lover stirred the pot and turned the heat off. He looked down at Zaeed’s neck, the bite mark half visible from under the collar of his tshirt. Still somewhat red and swollen, it now had a twin on Zaeed’s shoulder that Garrus had smothered in medigel as soon as he could make his legs work last night. He leaned close, targeted the crinkled laugh lines with his mouth.

His mate stilled, looking down at the pot. “Now all I can think is goddamn Vorcha mouths. All those fucking teeth. And spit. You ever notice how much spit flies when they talk? Christ. It’s a fucking bath.”

Garrus chuckled, nuzzled his neck. “So is this the end of bacon-flavored bean things?” He tried not to sound too hopeful.

“Yeah, no. You don’t get over a lifetime of eating goddamn _beans_ from a little Vorcha gross out.”

He sighed, wrapped his arms around his mate. It was too much to hope for. When he thought about it, he’d probably eaten food that made Zaeed cringe too. He supposed there could be something worse than bacon-flavored bean things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the chapter is from a story a friend tells of when she and her boyfriend were staying in a hostel in England (I don't remember where exactly). At the hostel, they could buy breakfast for very cheap (like 50p or thereabouts, too cheap to pass up-this was years and years ago, so maybe it's a pound by now...) and the options were either beans and eggs or beans and toast. No eggs and toast, of course. My friend's boyfriend, being the smartass that he was, every morning would order beans and beans. Just because he could.


	11. Spoon Me Up Some Honey, Honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: spooning

He’s always the big spoon.  
  
He likes being the big spoon. He likes to wrap himself around his mate, snug up against him in as many ways possible and warm him from the outside in. Sometimes - meaning nearly always - Zaeed will grumble: that he’s holding too hard, that his plates are too rough, that he can’t get comfortable. But then he just purrs and hums in his subharmonics and the man settles down and as a rule falls asleep quite quickly. Garrus follows soon after, lulled by the man’s occasional snores.  
  
So there’s that. He just prefers it. Plus there’s the inconvenience of his fringe possibly taking out one of Zaeed’s eyes, and his carapace makes it difficult to feel close. The man complains it’s like hugging him with a rock in between them, which is slightly insulting since rocks are cold and Garrus is most certainly not cold. And yes, maybe his carapace is a bit harder than the rest of him, but really what can a person expect? It’s a protective coating, after all. It’s meant to be harder. In addition to all that, there are his spurs. And yes, he readily admits, they do get in the way when it comes to tangling their legs together. There’s just not an easy work-around on those things. At least when he’s the big spoon, he can tuck his legs behind, or sometimes Zaeed will twist his foot in a spur if he throws one of his legs over his. He likes that, in fact. When his foot slides down and he locks his calf between spur and leg, like he’s holding on however he can.  
  
He’s always the big spoon.  
  
Except there are those rare occasions when he comes home from a particularly bad mission, when he sees something that disturbs him and the bitterness of it lingers in his gizzard, souring his insides like acid threatening to eat him away. He doesn’t even have to tell Zaeed. The man just knows by a look. So they have this position. It’s uncomfortable for both of them; Zaeed tucked down lower than normal against his back to avoid the fringe and the carapace as much as possible, Garrus laying half on his side and half on his back, legs angled in such a way that his spurs don’t drive a hole into his lover’s leg. Garrus imagines it can’t look pleasing in any respect. But it allows Zaeed to provide the necessary comfort, an arm over his waist, fingers splayed out on his belly or a thumb rubbing his keel bone  
  
In this position, they do not fall asleep. They talk. Or rather, Zaeed talks. Mostly mundane, everyday things about the children-how Paxton is doing in school, or how many new words Ingrid has learned in sign language, or what new dextro recipe he tried to make, or how he kicked the goddamn teacher’s ass for misinforming the class that Shepard should have been jailed for what he did to the Batarians, and oh by the way they need to find a new school for Pax. Again.  
  
Eventually limbs start falling asleep, but by then Garrus is beginning to feel better about the universe and his place in it, especially when Zaeed lightly kisses his carapace and asks him if he’s hungry. And yeah, he could eat.  
  
He doesn’t look forward to those days. Those days of needing to be held because of things he’s seen. Even though he enjoys the comfort. But it means that after everything they'd done - Collectors and Reapers and Cerberus and Heretic Geth, after a war that nearly wiped the galaxy clean and the rebuilding efforts of all species, even after all the people of all the species who sacrificed their lives to end the war - after all of that no one seems to have learned their lesson about being decent and respectful to the other sentient beings they share the 'verse with. It means that while he might still have a job because of it, he'd rather not if it meant that people would just learn to get along and stop trying to fuck shit up.  
  
But. At least he has someone to come home to. Someone who's not only willing to twist himself up like a pretzel to comfort him, but to recognize that that's what he needs in order to feel sane again. Someone who doesn't ask what he's seen, not because he doesn't want to know, but because he knows all too well and understands.


	12. Cleans Up Nicely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: in formal wear
> 
> Slow dance music, something like [ Cowboy Junkies sing Blue Moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J9D2yvD9Frk)

He finds him leaning on the balcony, down on the end nearly behind some large potted plants. It's the cigar smoke wafting up that gives him away. The night cycle of the Citadel is never truly dark so that from a distance the man's silhouette is outlined by the traffic lights and advertising signs. Garrus pauses to admire the lines of his mate in a tailored suit, even though the top buttons of his collar have already been undone, there's probably ash on the cuffs, and he knows for a fact that there's a stain on his lapel from a clumsy waiter. He still takes a moment to let his eyes linger over the form of the man he loves. So much.  
  
He greets a few other wedding guests who are on the balcony, makes his way slowly over to Zaeed, careful not to spill the drinks in his hand. The music from the live band pulses behind him, the noise of several hundred voices, the clatter of dishes-it all fades slightly as he walks along the balcony to be replaced with the whir of car engines and honking horns. A light manufactured breeze brushes his face, making him realize how warm he was in the crush of people inside.  
  
It's hard to sneak up on a merc. Zaeed senses him before he's even halfway over, turns to watch with an intense gaze that ratchets Garrus' heartbeat up a notch. When he's next to him, he sets the drinks on the balcony ledge, pushing the one for Zaeed toward him and mirrors his pose, leaning with his elbow on the rail. "Hey, mister fancy pants. You disappeared."  
  
Zaeed shakes his head at the crowd inside. "Too many goddamn people in there."  
  
Garrus watches him finish off the drink he'd already had with a swift tilt of his head. His neck is briefly exposed and he finds himself wishing he would do it again. Longer. In private. As it is, he takes a deep breath and moves a step closer. "Well, it is the wedding of the century. What did you expect?"  
  
Zaeed shrugs, tosses the cigar butt in the dregs of the glass. He reaches out to finger the fabric of Garrus' suit, pulls on it just enough that he gets the hint and moves in closer. "Honestly, if Shep and Alenko want to go all out and have a big brew-ha-ha, that's their fucking business." A finger and thumb flick a fastening on his suit jacket-once, twice-and then a hand is slipping in underneath while the man closes the remaining gap between them. "But why do they have to torture the rest of us with it?"  
  
Garrus chuckles, arms going around to hold Zaeed in a light embrace. "Well, we're their friends. So...I think we're the likely candidates for torture." The man just grunts, both hands now under his jacket, making their way to his back. Garrus rests his mandible on the man's cheek. "Have I told you how sexy you look in that suit?"  
  
It's Zaeed's turn to laugh quietly. "Not in the past ten minutes, I don't think."  
  
"Hm. Well. You do look sexy."  
  
"Yeah. Okay." He hears the man's grin as he says, "Can't wait to take it off."  
  
His mandibles flutter briefly, a heavy breath of desire causing his carapace rise and fall. "I can't wait to take it off you." He kisses the soft skin just behind his ear, purrs deep in his chest.  
  
Zaeed shifts his head, lips the scars on Garrus' face and neck. One of Garrus' hands moves up to finger the soft fuzz of hair at the base of the man’s head. He becomes aware that the music has changed inside, a tune he's never heard before that's sort of sexy and lazy, obviously meant for a slow dance. He then becomes aware that the two of them are swaying oh-so-slightly along with the rhythm of the song.  
  
"Hey, Zee."  
  
"Hm?" The lips are persistent, moving over his mandible, making their way to his mouth.  
  
He debates for a moment. He's pretty sure that pointing this out will break the spell, but it's just so unusual he can't stop himself. "We're dancing," he whispers.  
  
Zaeed stiffens for a moment, then relaxes back into his arms. The not-quite-swaying continues. "No. We're not."  
  
"I'm pretty sure we are."  
  
"Accidentally moving in time to goddamn music is not dancing. Shut the fuck up, Vakarian."  
  
"Okie."  
  
He feels the warmth of the body pressed close through the multiple layers of their formal attire. He tightens his arms around Zaeed, a hand now running through his hair as the man kisses him, softly at first. Just little nips on the upper corners of his mouth, a swipe of tongue. Then a hand moves to his side, fingers lightly moving over his waist, and the lips on his are now greedy, hungry.  
  
The swaying stops as Garrus pushes Zaeed back into the darkest corner of the balcony, properly behind the potted plants. The man's lusty laugh into his mouth just makes him want to shred that suit right off him and it's only the sound of other people's chatter that brings him a little bit of sense. He breaks away with a panting breath and a subvocal trill of need that makes Zaeed's eyes sparkle with humor.  
  
"Have I told you how goddamn gorgeous you look in that suit?"  
  
Garrus grins and kisses him again.


	13. Your Own Personal Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zaeed gets hold of some ganja. Turns out someone like to shotgun…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HeadCanon Time! Turians have a hard time forming a tight seal on their mouths, so smoking doesn’t really work well. I had a vision of Garrus exhaling cigarette smoke and it came out of everywhere-from under the mandibles, between those sharp teeth...in my mind, he looked like this dragon incense burner I have. So this happened.
> 
> Fair warning: there’s drug use in here, kids.

A distinctive smell wafting on the air coming in from outside leads Garrus from the apartment he’s just entered out to the balcony overlooking the ocean. Zaeed sits on one of the lounge chairs in jeans and a tshirt, head back as if to worship the sun. Cradled between his fingers, instead of his usual cigar, is something white and much smaller. Something causing the pungent smell.

“What’s the occasion?” He kisses the top of the man’s head, dropping tiredly into the lounge chair next to his mate.

His mate smiles, quirks an eyebrow. “Being alive seems to fit the bill.”

“I can get behind that. You gonna hog it all yourself?” He waves his fingers, inviting him closer. “Shotgun me.”

His mate’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Are you joking?”

“No, c’mon. I’m off for the next 50 hours. Shotgun.”

Zaeed looks at him curiously for a moment, then shrugs, “Alright.” He gets up, moving over to straddle Garrus’ lap. He takes a drag, focusing in on Garrus’ parted mouth. He nods and purses his lips, exhaling just against his mouth plates, directing the smoke so Garrus can inhale it in a quick gulp of air. His lips linger briefly, moving in the lightest of kisses.

The flavor hits his tongue, moves up into his nostrils, acrid and herbal, the smoke warming his lungs for the briefest of moments as he sucks in and holds his breath. Zaeed watches him, all keen interest, hand on his neck, thumb stroking his unscarred mandible. He exhales slowly, eyes locked with his mate’s.

Zaeed’s face lights up in a grin, watching the smoke disperse. Then he snorts, kisses him again, chuckling. “Shit, Garrus.”

“What?”

“Nothing, just...uh…”

When he doesn’t finish the thought, Garrus kisses him back, hands on his hips, feeling the muscles just under the fabric of his jeans. “Again,” he says.

Zaeed hits him again, a longer pull, more smoke filling his lungs as he inhales, feeling a little bit greedy, waiting for the buzz to slowly infiltrate his brain. He relaxes fully back on the semi-reclined chair, Zaeed’s body following him down, chest pressed to keel bone as he lips along the edge of his mandible. The man’s eyes are half-lidded as he watches him carefully.

He exhales.

Zaeed makes the weirdest noise he’s ever heard the man make. If it were anyone else, he’d say it was a giggle.

Zaeed Massani does not giggle.

But he definitely just snorted. Again. And continues to make that noise. The man’s shoulders are shaking, chest vibrating with laughter. The corners of his eyes have crinkled into tiny crow’s feet. “Oh fuck,” he gasps. “Garrus.”

The world tips 0.06% to the north-east.

“Again.”

Zaeed doesn’t hesitate this time, kissing him hard, huffing the earthy air into his lungs, pulling back with a grin still on his face. He licks his fingers and pinches off the embers, saving the remainder in an empty ashtray. He says with a smirk, “When you exhale, say ‘I am Smaug, King Under the Mountain’.”

Garrus exhales, says, “I am Smaug, King Under the Mountain?”

Zaeed bursts into peals of rough laughter, falling onto him, smelling of smoke and warmth. His forehead is pressed to his shoulder, hands holding his arms gently.

He has no idea why it’s funny, but he laughs anyway. The sight of his mate laughing as the world tilts an additional 0.03% is just enough to make him not care. He laughs and he can’t stop, the flanged notes of his voice and his subharmonics trilling wildly as he giggles.

Eventually their laughter fades and they lay together, the quiet occasionally broken by a snort from Zaeed followed by a short burst of laughter. The man presses his lips to Garrus’ neck. “Goddamn, I love you,” he says, lazy words whispered on his hide.

Garrus wraps his arms around him fully, holding the man down on him in a light caress. “Mmn…” He doesn’t have a care, his head swimming just a little. The sun is so warm beating down on them, holding them in place under a perfect cloudless sky, with a perfect light breeze brushing over their bodies. “So…”

“...hm…” Zaeed shifts on him, snuggles in closer to fit their torsos against each other, which also conveniently presses their groins closer together. Under his fingers, he can feel the slight dampness of the man’s shirt as he sweats from the heat.

“Do I get to know what was so funny?”

Fingers make lazy patterns on his hide, stroking him slowly, making him think of other things beyond just sitting in the sun. Zaeed pulls back a little, looks at him sideways. Then he’s kissing him, slow and languid, lips moving up to his nose, rubbing over the ridges he finds there, moving down to feel the rough surface of his scars. Heat pools under his pelvic plates as he enjoys the welcome ministrations from his mate, his soft fingers on either side of his face, holding him like something precious. The man pauses, his lips hovering just at his mouth. A green eye, a milky blue eye capture his blue ones and Garrus sees the desire and love there. Zaeed’s mouth quirks slightly, his nose flaring briefly as he grins.

“I married a goddamn dragon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title inspired by Depeche Mode's [Your Own Personal Jesus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1xrNaTO1bI). Also covered most excellently by [Johnny Cash](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TTg7NcucINc)


	14. Ryncol is Batman's Kryptonite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is prompt from [ potionsmaster](http://archiveofourown.org/users/potionsmaster/pseuds/potionsmaster): Garrus and Zaeed smut, 1000 words or less, "I can't feel my tongue, Zeee...."
> 
> Horrible enabler.
> 
> This one is NSFW, my dears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is .15% (or thereabouts) ryncol in Zaeed's blood enough to set off Garrus' allergic reaction? It is in this story...

Zaeed trips heavily over Garrus' boot, blurry eyes attempting to focus on the panel by the door so he can key in the unlock code for the door to their apartment. "Shit-" he brushes the Turian’s persistent mouth away from his neck, "Leave off for a goddamn minute, love." His words slur through the ryncol that he'd spent the past couple hours drinking. He takes a deep, drunken breath, finally opens the door and stumbles in. Garrus tumbles drunkenly in after him, nearly on top of him, pressing him to the wall in the entryway.  
  
"...need you..." Lazy strokes of his rough tongue leave a wet trail along the back of his neck. "Now." One hand reaches around to cup his dick through his jeans, pressing, grasping at the bulge he finds there. "Mm...you need me too..."  
  
Alcoholic vapors from the dextro whiskey Garrus had been drinking all night drift in Zaeed's direction. He bends his head back, leaning on Garrus' shoulder. "You're bloody horny when you're drunk."  
  
"'M always horny. I jesss happen to be drunk." He tugs at Zaeed's zipper, working it awkwardly down.  
  
"Right. Amend that then. You're uninhibitedly  horny when you're drunk-uhnf-" Garrus' hand gropes down underneath his boxers, searching for and finding Zaeed's cock. His other hand pushes the loosened jeans and boxers down over his hips until they come to rest around his knees. "What're you-"  
  
"Off." Garrus tugs at his shirt. Trying and failing to get it over his head, it ends up with one sleeve down one arm and the shirt halfway across Zaeed's shoulders, one shoulder bare, the rest scrunched up around his neck. Garrus' tongue finds naked skin, lapping with an urgency that Zaeed has come to realize means he wants to mark the man with his teeth. The ryncol has his head swimming in tandem with the blood-pounding urges of his mate's, but he does spare a thought to their location.  
  
"Christ. Garrus. Here?"  
  
There's no answer, just his hot panting breath and a humming in his subharmonics. A finger rubs at his entrance which is enough to spur him to feel around behind him, fingers fumbling for the fastenings of his lover’s trousers, his own need building.  
  
"Right. Fucking...here, then-"  
  
He can feel Garrus is hard, has already slid out of his shaft, his trousers not just a little damp from his natural lubrication.  
  
"Jesus, Garrus. How long have you been thinking about this?"  
  
"All night."  
  
"But that's-" they'd been out for hours, drinking their way through several neighborhood bars. Considering what he'd just admitted to, the Turian had been remarkably reserved until just a few moments ago when they'd stepped off the elevator. "Shit." His hand is swatted away, Garrus opening his fly just enough for his dick to spring free and hit him with a wet smack on his ass. He holds him firmly to the wall, a hand pressed on his spine. There's little preamble, just the probing pad of his finger for a moment and then a surge of heat inside and Garrus covering his back, teeth sinking into the flesh of his shoulder. Garrus grasps his hips, jerking Zaeed back on those angular plates to seat himself more fully, bending him slightly for a better angle. "Ah, fuck!"  
  
Garrus gives his head a small shake, teeth sinking in further, thrusts even harder so that Zaeed's head bangs the wall. "Fuck! Damnit!" Three Turian fingers circle his cock, stroke him with too firm a grasp. But the ryncol helps him feel no pain so that he pushes back with each thrust, encouraging his mate on with a continuous string of filthy words.  
  
Considering how wasted they both are, it's over fairly quickly, his cum splattering the wall, Garrus leaving deep bruises on his hips, moaning loud into his skin as he comes. He finally releases his flesh, lapping at the blood that drips down his shoulder.  
  
"Shit. Garrus. Fucking...ow." He stretches his shoulder, feeling the dull ache more now that Garrus' teeth aren't deeply embedded there.  
  
"Hm..." His mate leans on him, pressing him awkwardly to the wall as he hums in his subharmonics again, both of them gasping for breath.  
  
"Need to get you wasted more often."  
  
"Wath okay?"  
  
He huffs a laugh, his knees nearly buckling under him. "Yeah. Okay. Could use a bit of goddamn medigel maybe. That's going to sting in the morning."  
  
"Yeah thorry...got a bith carried...away...um. Thee?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I can'...uh...I can' heel my 'ongue, Theeee..."  
  
"What'd ya mean, can't feel your tongue?" He turns to look over his shoulder, sees Garrus smack his mouth plates, tongue rubbing over his teeth. If he's not mistaken, the tongue looks a bit...swollen...  
  
"I can'! I can' heel my 'ongue!" Garrus' eyes are wide and slightly panicked.  
  
"Okay, okay. Just-" he turns, yanking at the jeans around his knees. His brain is gone, not able to think straight between the orgasm and the ryncol-"Wait. You're highly allergic to ryncol."  
  
"Yeth..."  
  
"And there's now ryncol in my system."  
  
"Yeth?"  
  
"Fucking goddamn fuckingfuck-" Zaeed makes a mad dash, pulling his jeans up the rest of the way as he runs back to the bathroom in their room and grabs the auto injector from the kit on Garrus' side of the vanity.  
  
He's not sure where to give the shot once he has it, but Garrus points to a soft spot between his plates, eyes still wide and tongue most definitely swollen. He eases him down on a stool in the kitchen, watching him carefully- for what? Passing out maybe, or choking, or...do Turians get hives? They should maybe talk about this once the reaction wears off.  
  
Garrus keens quietly, elbows on the counter and head in his hands. "Gotham ryncol."  
  
Zaeed laughs, slides his hand up his mate's back to rest on his shoulder, leaning his drunken self against his mate. Garrus returns the motion, tipping slightly towards him. "That's right, love. Goddamn ryncol."


	15. Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things aren't that bad, really. Reaper War won. Garrus is a Spectre. Zaeed's nemesis is locked up in prison. Is it right to ask for more from life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a prompt from pleasespellchimerical as a result of some crazy need to have multiple prompts thrown at me when life is just throwing curve balls left and right.[ Yeah, I asked for it and everything.](http://threewhiskeylunch.tumblr.com/post/129296769388/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you) Slowly getting those done because I keep my prompt promises!
> 
> Anyway, the prompt was: prompt #16, “It could be worse.”. Pre relationship Vaksani. :o
> 
> Here you go, luv!

The chime from the small kitchen area just to the side of the crew lounge alerts Garrus that his dinner is ready and waiting. He gets a slight whiff of it from where he sits in the cockpit of his small ship and it smells like something that wants to be appetizing and wholesome, but hasn’t quite managed to fulfill the specifications. Probably never will. Certainly whatever it is that he’s thrown in to heat is a thousand times better than the dextro ration bars he grew to hate while serving on the SR-1, but it’s still a far cry from a home cooked meal. He sighs, realizing he can’t remember the last time he had a home cooked meal.  
  
Rather than getting up and removing the dinner from the warmer, he slouches down in his chair, staring out at the azure mass effect field that shimmers over the ship, and the stars and darkness beyond. He feels a deep ache when he focuses on the void, a loneliness that he can’t name. It rests in his chest, mostly ignored until moments such as this when he becomes hyper aware of life and death and the vacuum outside the hatch.  
  
He thinks of Shepard in these moments. Alone in the dark with no lifeline. Weightless and dying, pulled into the gravity of Alchera. A fierce shiver rocks him with the thought. Cold space. Cold planet. Had Shepard’s body not been recovered it would have remained there; frozen in time and memory, forever mourned in the tragedy of his untimely death.  
  
So, all things considered, it could be worse. He could be floating in space with a leak in his air hose, freezing and alone.  
  
This does not make him feel better.  
  
It only makes the ache in his chest burn more brightly.  
  
A small, yearning keen escapes from his throat as he looks over at the empty co-pilot’s chair. He knows the problem but refuses to name it. The spot that he’s tried to fill with random encounters on various planets he’s visited lately. All have been physically satisfying. None have left him fulfilled in any other aspect. He wants...an image flashes of Shepard and Kaidan, heads together in easy confidence, laughing over private jokes, finishing each other’s sentences. He wants that. Partnership. Companionship. Sex that means something beyond a physical release. The ease of knowing there is someone who wants him to come home.  
  
Yes, okay. His father and sister. But it’s not the same. They have to like him. It’s written in some sort of family code book somewhere.  
  
He gets up with a heavy breath and retrieves his dinner, poking at it warily with his fork. Could be worse. Could be dextro paste. Could be something from a tube. Could be worse, but could be better. He’d prefer better. He’d like to think maybe better isn’t so impossible. Someone to come home to. A home cooked meal if he's really fortunate. Not a very tall order really.  
  
His omnitool pings an alert for his private messages. He takes a bite of his dinner, chewing as he reads the invitation from James Vega. House party. N7 graduation. Three weeks hence. He responds with a click to accept, sends the message back and enters the date on his calendar.  
  
He finishes his dinner as he stares out into the void of space.  
  
~~~~~  
  
 **Three weeks later...**  
  
Zaeed stares at his face in the mirror, wipes the last of the shaving cream from under his sideburns. It's a familiar, scarred mug that stares back. A few more lines from age around the corners of his eyes, a bit more gray in amidst the brown hair at his temples. Nothing like a galactic war to stamp time and worry on an already messed up face.  
  
Something has eased in his gut and he knows it's reflected in his face, his posture. So maybe Vido isn't dead, but locked up in a prison on Tuchanka is almost as good. The stress of knowing his former partner still ran free had pulled at him, always there in the back of his mind. It had spurred him on, even in the darkest days of the war. Had to survive: always with the thought of Vido.  
  
And of a certain Turian.  
  
He feels fifteen with an unrequited crush. Only he never had had that, never had had the chance because of circumstance to be a normal kid. So maybe it’s his due, nearly forty years later.  
  
His mismatched eyes look back at him, the difference in color making him appear just a bit cross-eyed. He knows it throws people off and he likes it like that. His face is a mess he’s gotten used to, each morning shaving around the scars. It could be worse, he thinks. It could have been blown clean off. But then he wouldn’t have to worry about anything anymore, lost in the final void: wouldn’t have to worry how a certain Turian might be doing (single? lonely? met someone?) or if he could stand to look at a face like his (a reminder of the scar on his own face?) or even be interested in a fucked up man like himself (but he’d never know if he didn’t try).  
  
He tosses the towel aside, goes to find his clothes in the bag sitting at the end of the hotel bed. Lately he’s taken to wearing more ordinary clothes when he’s not on a job. Non-military clothes that fit his frame with ease. He’d never worn jeans much before and he’s discovered he likes the way they feel, becoming more comfortable the more he wears them. That and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and he’s just about out the door when he catches sight of himself in the closet mirror.  
  
He pauses, gives himself a side glance. He almost looks...normal. Except for the jagged scar and the highly customized pistol, he could be just about anyone. He’s never been vain (okay, maybe a bit, because there’s nothing like scars on one’s face to remind a person that they’re a survivor, and yeah, that’s something to be fucking vain about), but he knows he cuts a good figure. He’s lean and fit, a lifetime of hard living written on his body. Could be worse, really. Deformed. Gone to pot. Dead. Could be better, but he’s always been adept at working with what he’s been given. A lifetime of not being given much means making the most of it.  
  
He shrugs a bit, rolls his shoulders. He leaves his hotel room and heads out to Vega’s graduation party.


	16. Anatomy Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What better way for Garrus to learn what Zaeed likes than for him to show him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from ser-padfoot on tumblr: [ #1: "Come over here and make me."](http://threewhiskeylunch.tumblr.com/post/129296769388/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you)
> 
> Otherwise known as an excuse for some pwp.

The words slip from his mouth before he even knows he’s thinking them and Zaeed’s surprised look just reinforces the awkwardness of the moment. It doesn’t help that Zee is standing over there on the other side of the room, naked except for a towel slung over a shoulder, still damp from his shower and Garrus can see every blessed tattoo and scar in sight. And that maybe Zaeed’s dick might have twitched just a little bit.  
  
Okay, so. Maybe that was the right thing to have said.  
  
“The hell did you just say?” Zaeed asks. There’s a smirk at the corner of his lips, but his voice is low and threatening and fucking sexy as hell and that if nothing else sends a shiver down his spine and makes his plates twinge.  
  
Garrus gulps. Then decides, well, it’s been said once. He can say it again. “I want to watch you...get yourself off.”  
  
Zaeed’s smirk grows and he leans back against the wardrobe he’d been apparently intending to take clothes out of. Before Garrus stopped him by uttering unfiltered-by-thought-process words. He crosses his arms, tattoos just right there for Garrus’ eyes to feast on. And his dick, magnificent with that flaming ink, maybe getting just a bit hard.  
  
“Come over here and make me.”  
  
Garrus blinks at the challenge, brain stuttering over the words. _What did he- Did he just- He did just-_ His nostrils twitch, scenting the air, and yes, he can smell the faint beginnings of desire coming off the man. His pelvic plates respond, loosening a bit. He narrows his eyes slightly, keeping his mandibles tight so as not to reveal the giant grin that threatens. So new. It’s all still so new with this man. He stands straight, pulling himself up to his full height and stalks over to his lover in a slow, measured pace. Zaeed never breaks eye contact, his eyebrows raising as Garrus draws nearer.  
  
He’s close enough now he can touch, pulls the towel away to toss in the corner. He clasps Zaeed’s hand within his own, guides it down to the man’s cock. He places the hand gently over the now most certainly growing erection, feels the softness of the foreskin just at his fingertip. He wraps the man's fingers around, underneath his own, their hands joined in a grasp over his inked penis. He steps closer, desire manifesting in a heady rush of power.  
  
"Get yourself off. I want to watch."  
  
Zaeed's grin widens and then he winks. His eyes scan the room, resting for a moment on a chair in the corner. "Go sit over there," his voice is husky, ripples of rough desire scatter the undertone of his words.  
  
Garrus takes a step back, not releasing his gentle hold so that the man is forced to follow.  
  
"My dick's not a lead, you know. What're you, afraid I'll run away?"  
  
"Just making sure you know you're locked into this situation."  
  
Zaeed's nostrils flare in amusement. "Interesting word choice."  
  
He waggles his eyebrows with exaggeration, which is barely at all given his plates’ abilities.  
  
They retreat like that to the chair, eyes and hands locked, until Garrus' spurs hit the cushioned seat. He doesn’t sit right away though. Instead, he pulls his mate closer to him with his other hand. He can’t resist pressing his mouth into the crook of Zaeed’s neck, nipping at the skin. His other hand tightens briefly over the man’s to feel the cock harden further underneath.  
  
Zaeed laughs and pushes him away with enough force that he falls back into the chair as he releases his hold on him. “You want a show or not?”  
  
“This isn’t participation theater? Damn. I must have the wrong apartment.” He leans back, not really sure what to do with his hands now. But Zaeed must sense this, takes one hand in each of his and places them on the arms of the chair. He leans close, weight on their joined fingers, and kisses him without preamble, teeth biting at his plates. He’s forceful and hard for long, delicious moments, using his mouth in ways that takes Garrus’ breath and removes it from the equation.  
  
Then he's gone, standing over him and looking down at him and Garrus is almost fairly certain that he's never breathed before in his life and will have no need of it the future.  
  
His mate is glorious.  
  
He knew this before, but it reasserts itself as an indisputable fact. The muscles in his chest ripple as he steps closer in between Garrus' legs and lifts a foot to slide in between the chair arm and Garrus' thigh. Which brings his crotch in closer. He moves to stroke the leg, lured by the defined muscles of his calf, but his hand is swatted away and placed firmly back on the chair.  
  
"No. Watch."  
  
"You're mean."  
  
"Your rules."  
  
"Ah. I'm mean."  
  
"This is what I'm saying. Making me do all the goddamn work." Zaeed palms himself. But he's grinning while he grumbles so Garrus is hard pressed to feel too sorry for the man.  
  
"I can help-"  
  
"No. You wanted to watch. So suffer. In silence preferably."  
  
"Now you are being mean."  
  
"You're awfully mouthy to someone with their goddamn dick in your goddamn lap."  
  
Garrus grins up at him and then visibly presses his mouth plates together, pulling his mandibles in tight.  
  
Zaeed snorts a laugh and leans down to kiss him on his crest. "Fuck, you're sexy."  
  
"So are you." That's what he wants to say. But his mouth plates are pressed together, so it comes out more like, "Mm mm muu."  
  
His mate straightens, spits in his hand and returns to stroking himself, smirking at him. He lets his eyes wander down the length of torso, past tattoos and scars and over ribs and muscles until his gaze rests on Zaeed's cock and the hand around it.  
  
His heart stutters in his chest. Stops. Resets. Speeds. He finds his breath again, out of nowhere lifting his carapace in a heaving gasp. It's not the first time he's been so up close and personal to Zaeed's dick. But just this act of him pleasuring himself slowly for Garrus' benefit, showing him this with no reservation, and he wants to stop time, take in every motion, every nuance of fingers on flesh. He looks up quickly to see Zee watching him, eyes hooded, his own chest rising and falling faster.  
  
"See something you like?"  
  
Garrus nods, all too eager, and returns to watching the movement in front of him. He has to physically force himself to not move forward and lick. He so wants to lick. Zaeed slicks the foreskin back, exposing the reddening bulb at the tip and Garrus can see the beginnings of a drop a moisture leaking from the small slit. A small keen escapes from his throat, a desperate subvocal noise of want.  
  
Zaeed laughs softly at that, “Regretting your rules yet?”  
  
“I just...want to lick,” he gasps. He finds that his finger is brushing at his pelvic seam, teasing through the fabric of his trousers. He’s not really certain when it had moved from the chair arm, but now that it’s there, he pushes slightly with enough movement so that his lover’s eyes are drawn downward to notice. “It would be a shame to waste-” his eyes follow the drop of liquid as it falls from Zaeed’s tip to land on the crease of Garrus’ trouser leg. “Too late,” his subvocals ring with sincere lament and he sighs, looking up to see the wicked smile on the man’s face.  
  
The air seems to shimmer with tension and need. He gets another kiss, Zaeed leaning down, hunched over his cock, his hand resting for a moment on Garrus’ shoulder. The weight of him presses him back into the chair and it tips just enough to hit the wall behind it, Zaeed’s bare foot lodging further between his side and the chair, nearly at his back. It brings his body closer so that Garrus can feel the man’s warmth emanating from his body and his other hand-the one not busy at his seams-reaches out to pull him all the way in, wanting to feel soft skin through the fabric of his tunic. Zaeed grunts and pushes back, breaking the long kiss with a series of short ones before he takes Garrus’ hand in his and moves it back to the chair.  
  
“Bad Garrus,” he chides, still stroking at his cock, moving the foreskin up over the head and sliding a finger into the small space between skin and tip. His voice is rougher, slightly breathless as it catches in his throat. He spits into his hand again, working the moisture over the tip, sliding the foreskin all the way up and working the head with his palm as the skin is pinched between thumb and finger, stretching the inked flames upwards. Which is all just slightly alarming.  
  
“Doesn’t that-that looks like it hurts!”  
  
Zaeed doesn’t answer, hand moving more rapidly. The other reaches down to roll his balls and his hips jerk slightly. Garrus realizes this is an excellent opportunity to learn new things about what his partner likes; he notes the way he slicks the tip again, finger rubbing inside-he could never do this with his talons he realizes, how he presses his thumb on that spot between the base of his cock and the balls, the way his fingers tighten at the head. In his fascination with his lover’s anatomy lesson, his own hand stills, his needs not forgotten, but set aside for the moment. He looks up into the face of his mate to see his eyes close, his lips parted as he pants a low almost-groan.  
  
“You’re beautiful like this,” Garrus whispers. He’s so in awe as he watches his mate get himself off, enraptured with love and desire. Zaeed’s eyes open, pupils blown wide. His brows come down for a second before he leans again and kisses him with a moan. He does not remove Garrus’ hand when it returns to hold him, fingers massaging his ass, encouraging him on towards what is quickly becoming the end-he can tell by the force of his kiss, the way he nips at his mouth plates, panting into his mouth. And then, of course, his whispered “-hng-Shit. Garrus. I’m gonna-”  
  
He pushes him back then, wanting to see it all, to watch the finish. Zaeed’s hand has stopped, although the grip is still firm and his hips jerk quickly several times, stomach muscles contracting as he shouts-much louder than usual, Garrus notes-and comes in thick, ropey streams of glistening white sperm that splash down from the gathered foreskin onto Garrus’ carapace. The leg he’s standing on seems to give for a moment as he squeezes the last out of himself, shaking his cock slightly and then he’s resting his forehead on Garrus’ crest, breathing in warm puffs while Garrus hums to him, so pleased and so very turned on.  
  
Zaeed huffs a quiet laugh and stands, taking a few steps backwards to collapse onto the bed. “Goddamn, love. What you fucking do to me.” His chest rises and falls several times in deep breaths as he comes down off his endorphin rush, a deep humming groan released from the back of the man's throat - a primal sound that pricks at Garrus’ ears. He gets up on his elbows, all sexy, dangerous mercenary in the look he gives him, wicked grin back as he leers from the bed. Garrus feels pinned to his seat by those mismatched eyes. “So,” he says, voice wrecked by his harsh moans. “Your turn, I think.”  
  
“My turn?” His voice is innocent, but his subvocals rumble as he runs a finger up his seam where lubrication has seeped through his trousers. He is so hard, halfway out of his plates and only held back by the soft fabric of his pants.  
  
The man snorts, eyes flicking from the motion back up to his face. His eyebrows quirk. “Hell, yes. Wanna watch you get yourself off.”  
  
He maintains eye contact while his heart speeds. His hand is firmly over his crotch by then, pressing down to emphasize the tent his dick makes with his trousers. His mandibles spread in a grin. “Come over here and make me,” he says.


	17. Family Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leave her alone for five minutes...
> 
> This takes place after The Fine Art of Redemption, when they're all living on Garrus' new Spectre ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame [ Felinafullstop ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Felinafullstop/pseuds/Felinafullstop)for this.

Zaeed stopped short as he passed by Ingrid's room, his eyebrows raised high in surprise. He watched his daughter for a moment, resisting the urge to stop the girl in her present endeavors and instead backed away slowly, raising his omnitool to his mouth. "Garrus," he said quietly.  
  
"Yeah." His mate spoke from the cockpit as he went over navigation with Veetor for their next FTL jump.  
  
"You might want to get back here. Have your goddamn camera app ready. This is a doozy.” No sooner had he disconnected than he reconnected again. “And try to be at least a little quiet."  
  
It only took a few moments for Garrus to make his way from the front of the ship, his omnitool already on. "What is it? What's happened?" Zaeed could hear the mild alarm in his mate’s subvocals, so he shook his head and pointed at Ingrid's room.  
  
"Have a look," he said softly.  
  
Garrus stuck his head around the corner. He froze for a moment as he watched her and then he emerged, his mandibles quivering with laughter as he tried to contain himself.  
  
"Spirits!"  
  
"Yeah." Zaeed smirked and pushed him away, pressing a finger to his lips. "Don't spook her." He took a step inside her door. "Hey, little duck. What you up to?" He crouched down beside her, trying to hide the grin that threatened his face.  
  
Ingrid turned away from the mirror, a paint brush coated in blue tempera paint in one hand and a pot of paint in the other. She beamed at him.  
  
"Papa, look! I'm daddy!" Streaks of blue paint covered her face and cheeks, around her eyes in the best imitation she could do of Garrus' markings. A few spots of blue tinged her curls as well from where she had pushed her hair back out of her face.  
  
"You sure are, love. Turn and show daddy. He wants to see too."  
  
She turned, holding up the paintbrush proudly in her left fist. "Daddy! See?"  
  
"I see, little duck. You're beautiful." Pride and love echoed through his subvocals as he reached out and gently touched her forehead--the only spot on her face not covered in paint--with the back of his talon.  
  
"You get all that?" Zaeed asked. Knowing full well his mate had probably not only taken pictures but vid as well.  
  
"I got it," Garrus said. "I got it all"


	18. Carry You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zaeed gets sick. Garrus gets worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For felinafullstop  
> Prompt: Garrus insists Zaeed is sicker than he’s ever seen him and just picks him up out of bed to go to a doctor

Zaeed Massani does not get sick. And even if he does technically get sick, he does not get _sick_. The man has the constitution of an ox (or so he says) and Garrus has never had reason to doubt it, regardless of not knowing what an ox actually is. So it’s no small reason for alarm when his mate returns home looking as pale as the opay that goes in Garrus’ favorite stew, his forehead glistening with a thin veneer of sweat.  
  
“You look terrible.”  
  
Garrus’ alarm grows when Zaeed looks his way, mismatched eyes dull and lacking their usual mix of humor and annoyance. “Just a goddamn cold. Gonna go take a nap. Be right as rain tomorrow.”  
  
Garrus’ eyes widen in surprise.  
  
Zaeed Massani does not take naps.  
  
He resists the urge to check on him for several hours, distracts himself by taking Jessie out of the display cabinet and disassembling the gun--quietly--to look over the parts. He’s been contemplating trying to fix her as a Christmas present to his mate and makes notes on specs and parts, cataloguing them on his omnitool. He reassembles her carefully, placing the gun back in the cabinet and closing the glass door with a quiet ‘click’.  
  
He walks over quietly and pauses outside the open door, peering into the darkened room. He makes out the dim shape of his mate laying under the sheet with his back to the door, sees the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He makes his way over the carpet past the end of the bed and rounds the corner to Zaeed’s side, barely breathing in an effort to not wake the man.  
  
Normally he’d expect Zaeed to open his eyes and yell at him for skulking around him while he sleeps; he braces himself for such a thing to happen. When it doesn’t--Zaeed still breathing rhythmically with the occasional snore--he crouches down next to him and studies his pale face in the dim light. He resists the urge to reach out and brush damp hair off his forehead. Zaeed’s brow is creased as he sleeps, as if in deep thought (or in pain). A small patch of red bumps has appeared at his neck, spreading down his bare chest and he also resists the urge to touch them with a fingertip. Instead he opens his omnitool and does a quick extranet search: _human fever rash symptoms_. The results are not promising.  
  
_There are 135 illnesses with fever and rash as symptoms in humans._  
  
Garrus’ concerns grow as he looks over the possibilities.  
  
He looks up to see Zaeed’s gaze on him. “The hell you doing?” The words are a whispered croak and Zaeed grimaces as he speaks, his hand coming to his throat in an unconscious gesture. Garrus mentally adds throat pain to the list.  
  
“Just checking on you. How’re you feeling? Can I get you anything? Like a free trip to the doctor?”  
  
Zaeed groans. “Just a cold, love. Don’t need a goddamn doctor.” The words are harsh, croaked out or whispered or almost honked if he puts any force behind it. “Could use a hot toddy though. Best damn thing for a cold.”  
  
He nods and leans in, brushes his mouth plates on the man’s forehead. Definitely fever. “Be right back.”  
  
Zaeed's eyes are closed by the time he stands. Garrus pulls up a recipe for ‘hot toddy’ and then adds throat pain to his search.  
  
_There are 17 illnesses associated with fever, rash, and sore throat in humans._  
  
At least he's managed to narrow it down, but as he scans over the possible causes, his fears are not allayed. All of them are alarming, especially considering he knows nothing about human illnesses. He sends a quick message to Chakwas, feeling out of his depth.  
  
The recipe for hot toddy is thankfully simple. He adds water to the kettle and sets it to boil, measures the honey and whiskey carefully and when the the kettle whistle blows adds the hot water. He searches Zaeed's side of the fridge, unable to locate anything remotely ‘lemon’. He sighs and returns to the extranet, discovers Thessia sweet li’mon’ is an acceptable substitute and that Zee has a bottle of the juice tucked away in the back corner. He measures this out and stirs the concoction.  
  
A message pings on his omni. A list from Chakwas of things to check: swollen lymph glands, muscle soreness, headache, and get a proper temperature reading please and thanks. Also she tells him which over the counter drugs he can give to help reduce the fever. He carries the mug to the bedroom and stops in the bathroom along the way, rifling through Zaeed’s medicine cabinet for something appropriate.  
  
He makes a mental note to catalog everything in there for future reference, somewhat appalled by his lack of foresight.  
  
Zaeed groans as he approaches, not quite asleep, eyes fluttering open, unfocused and drowsy.  
  
“Alright, mister I’m-not-sick,” Garrus sets the mug on the bedside table and sits next to him, the bed dipping under his weight. He uses his omni to turn the lights on, just enough so he can see better.  
  
Zaeed groans and shields his eyes. “I’m not sick.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. Sit up.” He tugs gently at the man’s hand and pulls his mandibles in tight to hide his distress as his mate struggles to right himself. “Here, Chakwas says to take these,” he gives him the meds and watches carefully as he swallows them dry.  
  
“Chakwas, eh? Must be worried.” Zaeed looks him in the eye, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.  
  
“Just want to be sure. Can’t have my human dying on me.” He presses the mug into Zaeed’s hands, watches him sniff the steam that rises gently and take a small sip.  
  
“Not gonna die,” he rasps. “Just a cold.”  
  
“Uh huh. So I’m not worried.” He brings up his medical app and scans over Zaeed with his omni. “Temperature elevated,” he notes the swollen glands on either side of Zaeed’s neck--so swollen it distorts the skin; he can see it without having to even feel it. Even so, he reaches out and gently runs a fingertip over the spots.  
  
Zaeed winces and pulls away. “Can hear it. Subvocals. Terrible liar.”  
  
“Hush, you. Drink.”  
  
Zaeed manages a crooked grin and Garrus smiles back, wanting to reassure him. His mate tips his head and finishes off the hot toddy, returning the mug. “Thanks.” He sinks back on the bed with a groan.  
  
“How’s your head?”  
  
“Hurts like hell.” He turns slowly, readjusting himself. “Can’t get comfortable. Hurt all over.”  
  
For Zaeed to say that, it must be bad.  
  
He adds ‘muscle ache’ and ‘headache’ to the list, guiltily takes a picture with his visor, concentrating on the rash, to send to Chakwas before he pulls the sheet up, running his hand down Zaeed’s arm.  
  
Heat radiates off his skin in waves, but the man shivers. “Pull that blanket up, love. Cold in here.”  
  
He doesn’t restrain the distressed hum from his subvocals as he pulls up the covers. He leans over and presses his forehead to Zaeed’s. A hand emerges from underneath the blanket to twine fingers with his. “‘M okay. Just need sleep.”  
  
“Okie. Call me if you need me. I'll be here.”  
  
“Always need you…” His fingers tighten for a moment before relaxing, eyes closing.  
  
Garrus hums against his overheated skin, stops himself from dropping down on the bed on the other side and holding onto his mate in a death grip. Instead he gets up and goes back to the kitchen, sends the picture to Chakwas along with the rest of the symptoms. He makes himself some dinner that he picks at while reading reports from the Council, his mind half on piracy and half on the man lying in the other room.  
  
He sighs and gives up, tossing the datapad on the table and does another extranet search, this time finding a site where he can enter in the symptoms and get a rated result. There are hundreds of possibilities.  
  
_Spirits!_  
  
He scans down the list, which just gets worse and worse the further he reads. His attention is captured by ‘renal cancer’ and stays there, engrossed in the workings of the human body.  
  
He does not hide the cry of anxiety in his subvocals.  
  
If only Chakwas would get back to him, perhaps she could provide some answers. But she's been strangely silent--he tells himself perhaps she’s in surgery--so all he has is the looming threat of a horrible condition and his own hellish imaginings.  
  
He goes to bed early, slipping in between the sheets quietly. At least here he can monitor Zaeed, be there if he needs. _Always need you_ \--a pleasing memory of croaked out, fevered words that warms his gizzard. One benefit to Zee being half delirious: subconscious confessions that he may or may not remember on the new day.  
  
Zaeed turns toward him in his sleep, settles against his plates, shivering slightly. His body fairly pulses with heat and Garrus wonders if he should give another dose of the meds, but his mate lays heavy in his arms and he can't bring himself to wake him. _Perhaps in a few hours, if the fever doesn’t break._ He closes his eyes and rumbles a purr deep in his chest, attempting to comfort not only Zaeed, but himself as well.  
  
He wakes to Zaeed shivering next to him and sits up, immediately alert. “Zee?” He touches him gently.  
  
“Cold...” The man's body shakes so violently the bed moves beneath them. “Turn...goddamn heat on…”  
  
This isn't right. Zaeed's forehead is hot to the touch, but his body is wracked with chills. Garrus jumps from the bed, visions of renal cancer swimming in his head, and pulls the covers off of his mate. “That's it. You're coming with me.” He picks Zaeed up in his arms and heads for the door.  
  
“Garrus—”  
  
“I think we can make it to Trinity Hospital in ten minutes, but maybe I should head for the clinic instead. Although not sure if they’d be able to treat this—”  
  
“Garrus.”  
  
“--since it’s probably renal cancer or something. Don’t they realize emergencies happen?” He's at the front door, fumbling with the lock, when Zaeed weekly smacks his carapace.  
  
“Garrus!”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Clothes.” The word is croaked out as the front door swings open to the hall, which is thankfully empty considering neither of them are wearing a stitch.  
  
Garrus shuts the door quickly with his foot and runs back to the bedroom. “Shit, shit shit—”  
  
“Calm the fuck down,” Zaeed shivers as Garrus pulls a shirt on over his head with trembling fingers. He tries, and fails, to take a deep breath and tamp down the panic that wants to push its way up his throat. He helps his mate step into a pair of sweats and then tugs on his own clothes in quick jerks, all the while recognizing that if he slowed down it would be easier, and still unable to bring himself to slow.  
  
Zaeed captures his hand when he reaches for him. “Can fucking walk.”  
  
He shakes his head, a quick back and forth, “No.” He swoops in a fast motion and the man is in his arms, huffing a groan before resting his head on his shoulder. “ _Coremani_ ,” he says, returning to the door and swinging it open. “I shall carry you.”  
  
“What’d you call me?” Zaeed asks, but the words are slurred and his head drops back, alarming Garrus with the loose sway.  
  
He runs.  
  
~~~~~  
  
His eyes open to an expanse of white sheet, Zaeed’s covered legs, his feet two peaks of white at the end. One hand rests on Zaeed’s thigh and the other has lost all feeling as he uses it for a pillow. He had fallen asleep in the clinic with his head on Zaeed’s bed, a chair pulled as close as he could get it and now his neck screams at the mistreatment and his back feels like it won’t move without someone moving it for him. He’d spent the better part of the night pacing around the bed where Zaeed lay unconscious, getting underfoot of the medical staff while they’d taken samples of blood and saliva and had stuck an IV in his vein to replenish fluids. One of the nurses had finally threatened to throw him out if he didn’t sit down. So he had, laying his head on the bed for just a moment. He wonders how many moments ago that had been.  
  
He feels light scratches of a fingernail on his fringe and carefully lifts his head to see his mate peering at him, eyes dark with exhaustion and the last vestiges of fever.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“Water.” Zaeed whispers because his throat is raw and sound doesn’t come out any other way except a loud, honking croak.  
  
“Okie.”  
  
He raises the head of the bed and holds the cup, wincing in sympathy when Zaeed pulls a face as he swallows, obviously in pain. When Zaeed’s done he moves over with a groan, making room for him next to him on the bed. He settles down next to him chest-to-chest, resting his crest on his mate’s forehead. Zaeed accepts the gesture with a tired sigh, his eyes closing, his fingers finding and latching on to Garrus’ own.  
  
“Not a cold, is it,” the man whispers, husky and drowsy.  
  
Garrus rubs his crest lightly over his mate’s forehead and purrs deep in his chest. “No—”  
  
“Not renal cancer, either.”  
  
He pulls back slightly, sees the corners of Zaeed’s mouth curl up, his eyes blink open. “You remember that part, huh?”  
  
“I remember you calling me something…” Zaeed searches his face, narrows his eyes as he digs through his memories. “Coreman?”  
  
“ _Coremani_ ,” he corrects, rolling his tongue over the word, letting it fill his subvocals: a song to his lover.  
  
He sees the response in Zaeed’s eyes, the pupils dilating, the softening of worry and pain. “Yeah, that. What’s it mean? Translator’s glitching.” Zaeed’s whispers fill the air around them, a small bubble of secrets that holds them together.  
  
He strokes a hand down his mate’s chest, slick with the hospital gown. “My heart. My soul. Turians don’t...we don’t use it much. We rely on our subvocals to convey what we feel. But sometimes, it becomes necessary to impart importance, to use the word so the other person understands just how much they mean to them. I think I heard my parents use the word all of twice.” He ducks his head briefly, his heart hammering with the intensity of Zaeed’s gaze. Regardless of how physically unwell the man feels, there’s an understanding in his eyes that makes Garrus blink.  
  
“Garrus,” he looks up as Zaeed lifts his hand, cradles his unscarred mandible in his palm. “My love.”  
  
His heart stops at the croaked out words. It’s one thing for Zaeed to call him ‘love’, to even tell him he loves him. This is something entirely different. Something new between them; a delicate web that holds them together even more than their bond. He keens lightly, Zaeed’s hand sliding behind his head, drawing him closer until his mouth plates brush the man’s too-warm lips, soft and gentle. Garrus pulls away after a brief kiss, but remains in his orbit, Zaeed’s illness sour on his breath. He refrains from pulling away. He’s smelled much worse in his lifetime.  
  
A salarian doctor appears minutes later, stuffed full of enthusiasm over Zaeed’s diagnosis of strep throat, cheerily dispensing pharmaceutical prescriptions, and telling Zaeed he can go. It is all sadly reminiscent of Mordin and when their eyes meet, he can see the man thinks so too; his mouth turns down, mismatched eyes blinking slowly. They both sigh at the same moment and Zaeed shakes his head quickly as if to clear it.  
  
They walk slowly down the hall, Garrus a constant at his mate’s side, keeps his hands free just in case. But once they’re outside in the dim light of dawn, Zaeed leans into him slightly, his fingers twining through his own in a tight grip that belies the straight back and stiff shoulders. Garrus gives the fingers a squeeze and helps his mate into the car.  
  
“No more goddamn extranet health searches,” Zaeed says once Garrus settles into the driver’s seat.  
  
“I make no promises. And I make no apologies either.”  
  
Zaeed gives him a tired smile and rests his hand on Garrus’ leg as he drives them home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thessia sweet li’mon’ created in conjunction with potionsmaster. It is not sweet at all. In fact it is horrifically sour.
> 
> Coremani: a fusion of ‘my heart and soul’ in latin. It has occurred to me that Garrus has no term of endearment for Zaeed, so this corrects that. I love the idea that the word is so little used that it's not in the translator, only used for those rare moments when it's truly necessary to be sure the other person knows how much they are treasured. It gives a lovely weight to the word.


	19. Gray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus chews over the morality of his life as a Spectre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a prompt from raven-wilde: "Do you think we're bad people?"
> 
> Timeline is after they and the children have moved onto the Spectre ship.

At any other time, they might be out on a relaxing excursion, laying in the hot sun, a gentle breeze drifting past them. But the detritus of war that covers the ground down below, the haze of pollution that still lingers in the air even after several years belies any notion of a vacation getaway. Khar’shan is a hellscape, barely able to support what little life is left. It’s not the first time they’ve been here, but he hopes this will be the last.

They wait. Garrus at his sniper rifle, Zaeed spotting with binoculars. Peering down into the ruins of a city where few people would dare to go. A perfect hide-out. He hates waiting. Hates the time it gives him to think about things, to dwell and mull and rattle around in his brain. Even with the solid support of his mate at his side, Garrus is beginning to resent what his job occasionally makes him do. What it means to be a Spectre. He never set out to be an assassin, but that, in essence, is what he is. He understands the need for it in theory. He’d just rather face his opponent head-on, be able to sight down his rifle and see another gun pointed at him. This assassination business just doesn’t seem quite fair.

“Out with it,” Zaeed says softly, still focusing his attention through the binoculars.

Garrus is constantly amazed at Zaeed’s ability to pick up on his emotions. He often wonders if he’s just not able to hide what’s going on in his brain as well as he thinks. He sighs.

“Do you think we’re bad people?”

He hears a sound from his lover. A tutting sort of tisk. He risks a glance and sees Zaeed looking over at him, his brow down. The man shakes his head and sighs slightly and then returns to his previous position of looking through his binoculars. “‘Course we’re bad people. We kill for a living. That’s generally not considered  _kind_ by any means.”

He should have known Zaeed wouldn’t mince words. It doesn’t ease his mind. “But the kids—”

“We’re raising children on a Spectre ship, hauling them around the goddamn galaxy, potentially exposing them to dangerous situations. Shit, Garrus. That’s not good. At all. We’re selfish for doing it. So you can do your job and I don’t go completely batshit insane.”

The man has a point. But doubt continues to worm its way through his brain, chipping away at his resolve.

“Target in sight,” Zaeed says softly.

Garrus concentrates on the figures he sees through his scope. He picks out Balak, then scans over the rest of the Batarians as they emerge from the bunker. He knows Zaeed is looking for snipers that might be facing their way, that he’ll alert him if there’s danger. He picks his target and steadies his breath.

He chooses his moment.

He pauses only long enough to be certain that Balak’s third in command is down. Someone has thrown Balak to the ground and covers his body with their own. But he’s not who they’re after. They slip away from their sniper’s perch, making their escape through the ruins to the shuttle that waits several clicks away.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Zaeed says after they’re safely away, shimmying through a crack in a building. “That asshole you just put down? The galaxy is better off without him. Slave running. Dealing red sand and hallex. And  _worse_. All behind Balak’s back. Probably would try to take  _him_ out at some point. So yeah. Maybe we’re not good people. And you’ve definitely got me beat out in degrees of goodness. But he sure as fuck was worse.”

Garrus peers around the next corner before he waves Zaeed on, following closely behind him. “I get that. I do. I just…” He’s having a hard time putting his thoughts into words. It all comes down to that problematic gray area he’s always had trouble with. Zaeed doesn’t prod at him. Lets him flounder around in his own thoughts until they’re safely back at the shuttle, taking off in a cloud of ashen dust.

“You having second thoughts?” Zaeed’s voice is quiet in the dim cockpit. When Garrus doesn’t say anything, Zaeed says, “Anytime you want to get out of this Spectre business, I’m game for whatever comes next. Hell, Garrus. We have enough credits to last four lifetimes. It’s not like either of us needs to work. But there’s a certain thing to be said for being an independent contractor. Or even,” he pauses, and gives Garrus a long look, “going rogue. Nothing I’d enjoy more’n to take out some of those fucking pirates and slavers permanent like.”

Garrus nods. Maybe someday that time will come. Not today though. He still thinks what they’re doing is important. He still feels the need to make some sort of difference. And for however much he says he’s a bad turian, there are still some things that are ingrained so deeply, the thought of not being part of something organized scares him a little. He’s always had that to fall back on: C-Sec; Shepard; the Spectres. Some structure to work within.

He looks over at his mate. If there was anyone he’d want to be cast adrift into the Universe with, it would be the man by his side. Maybe he’s not the best person, but he’s the one Garrus trusts the most. And isn’t that more important?


End file.
